


How to Win a Debate in Thirteen Easy Steps

by junkshopdisco



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, F/M, Gen, Political AU, Socialite Morgana, activist gwen, campaign manager merlin, journalist gwaine, lawyer Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 04:54:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 61,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29112645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junkshopdisco/pseuds/junkshopdisco
Summary: Time is running out for the United Albionists to field a candidate to stand for election against Morgause’s harsh regime. It falls to Merlin to find someone. Arthur Pendragon—a lawyer with an impressive streak of magical and worker’s rights victories against the government—seems to fit the bill. Only problem is, the last time Merlin saw him, Arthur had him fired for beating his sister Morgana in a debate.Has Arthur changed enough to make him tolerable, and has Merlin changed enough to not only tolerate him, but propel him to victory?
Relationships: Gwen/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Morgana (Merlin)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 31
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	1. Follow the form, if debating formally. Look up the rules and make sure you stick to them.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roh_wyn](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=roh_wyn).



> This fic is for Roh_wyn, as part of Fandom Trumps Hate. They requested Morgana and Merlin as campaign managers for rival political campaigns. I hope this is something like that x
> 
> Inspo for this comes from the film The Candidate, or more precisely me really wanting to have the Photoshop skills to recreate the poster for it with Bradley. And also the final season of the West Wing, which gets a couple of nods. There's a playlist [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1OD7nMZsuXk4RRwuiQzL9w?si=hzW7bWIkQleSH-enze0nsA)

_ The Camelot Chronicle, 18 _ _ th _ _ November  _

_Speculation is mounting this week that the United Albionists are struggling to find a suitable candidate to challenge High Priestess Morgause in next year’s election. It’s easy to understand why career politicians might be reluctant to throw down the gauntlet—after all, she’s held the highest office in the land since defeating Uther Pendragon more than 20 years ago. The crop of contenders range from the uninspired—names like Jack Diggory, Jill Peters, and the barely-still-breathing Lord Cocker have been floating around—to the downright bizarre, with Aithne Bushmaker being suggested, despite currently being four years into a twenty-year prison stretch for unsanctioned use of magic._

_To add to the party’s woes, polls show Morgause enjoying a 65% approval rating amongst voters, despite mounting dissatisfaction at her harsh stance on rights for magical folk and widespread condemnation for her seeming disinterest in improving conditions for workers and citizens outside of her chosen interest groups. Activist Gwen Smith spoke last week about the need for balance, that low income families, particularly single-parent families, must not be left behind as more resources are poured into Camelot’s Magical Defence Programme._

_“Defending Camelot from attack by our enemies is obviously important,” Gwen Smith said, addressing a convention on poverty and magical rights, “but I hear every day from working people who can’t afford to put food on their table. Community initiatives are stepping in to fill the gap, but the government needs to invest in infrastructure beyond magical defences. We need to secure funding for community apothecaries and education to provide a prosperous, safe future for our children, not rely on food banks to provide basic sustenance to the very people working day and night to build magical weapons to keep Camelot’s enemies at bay.”_

_At the same convention, Arthur Pendragon, who many hoped would step into the political sphere after his father retired and pick up where he left off, also spoke of the need for radical change. “Camelot should be a beacon of hope and peace,” he told the large crowd of delegates and diplomats. “We should seek to set an example to other territories that fairness and equality are not weaknesses, but a show of strength. For too long, we’ve weaponised magic and believed that attack will protect us, rather than looking to diplomatic solutions to create a united land where no-one has to beg for their life, where dignity is granted to all, where there isn’t one rule for people with power and another for everyone else.”_

_It would be well within the scope of Pendragon’s abilities to deliver change. He has, after all, defeated Morgause’s government in several high profile legal battles involving banished citizens in the past two months alone, and his fundraising endeavours have coaxed millions from his father’s old allies. He’s also rumoured to be dating Gwen Smith and they could prove a powerful partnership. Her activist reputation could add authenticity to his words and enable him to poll well with voters on lower incomes despite his status, and invigorate a party that many see as outdated and having failed in its aims concerning equality and unity. A source close to Pendragon, however, told me that growing up in a political household disillusioned him greatly about the compromises politicians must make, and he feels he can achieve more by continuing his work with refugees and asylum seekers from Cenred’s kingdom and pressing for better working conditions inside the legal framework._

_But the need for a leader is clear. That’s what makes the United Albionists' inability to even select a half-decent candidate for the upcoming election so disappointing. It raises questions about the priorities of the party and what is going on behind closed doors._

_A source from inside the Albionists cause told me yesterday that no one is willing to risk being humiliated and that in private, they see the election as a forgone conclusion. Of course, it’s difficult to find someone to stand against an opponent who can turn your eyeballs inside out just by looking at you, but Camelot used to be a place where stacked odds were a challenge, not an insurmountable obstacle._

_If no-one has the balls to challenge Morgause’s leadership, what it says about us a society is that these days, we only choose to fight battles we think we can win._

_Gwaine Green_

_Gwaine is a columnist for The Camelot Chronicle._

“Well?”

Merlin pushed the newspaper aside and rotated the whiskey in his glass. In the dim light of the bar, the photo of Arthur Pendragon glared up at him. They’d certainly captured his best angle—impassioned spread of his arms, defiant set of his jaw, a steely kind of belief in his eyes as he stared the camera down. The one of Gwen Smith was no less striking for being more casual. She sat surrounded by kids, a story book balanced on her knee, long skirt sweeping the floor and a laugh on her mouth at whatever the kid closest to her had just said. It was nice work. Solid. Good piece. Would provide some interesting Sunday brunch conversation for the people who could still afford to eat such a thing.

“Well what?” Merlin said, taking a swig of his drink.

Across the table, Gaius sighed and leaned in, tapping the column with his middle finger. “About this. About this as a solution to our problem.”

Merlin rolled his eyes. He’d spent the last three years listening to Gaius as he paraded one upper class twat after another in front of him. How many times had they met here, Gaius pretending he wanted a catch-up, then trying to convince Merlin that this was the one, the one who could turn the fortunes of the party around and restore peace and serenity to Camelot? They were always the same kind of person, selected from a handful of old families who’d been loyal to Uther Pendragon. Merlin had occasionally suggested candidates of his own—Druids who spoke about the sanctity of preserving the ancient ways not the merely old ones, of a return to nature and a halting of the expensive Magical Defence Programme in favour of peace—but Gaius had rejected all of Merlin’s ideas out of hand. _They need to be electable, Merlin. Druids only appeal to the grassroots, Merlin. We need a centrist, someone who can speak the language of the old allies as well as the people, Merlin._

Merlin skimmed the page again. “It was you this journalist—this _Gwaine_ spoke to, I take it?”

“Absolutely not. If I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousand times what happens when you go meddling with journalists.” Gaius adjusted his bow tie, the way he always did when he was lying. “However, it’s imperative we find a candidate. And you can’t deny, he has a point. We can’t rely on the rest of the party to find someone. We’ve exhausted all the options, unless you fancy yourself a prison break.”

Merlin sipped at his drink. It was true enough. They’d been through the list of local mayors and councillors countless times, turning up a handful of candidates who told them no one after the other. The party meetings hadn’t been anything but shuffling the same debates about what electability looked like back and forth for years. Even Gaius had left most of them with his lips tightly pressed together so he didn’t say something that’d get his membership revoked.

The amber liquid in Merlin’s glass rippled with his sigh. He didn’t even like whiskey. It just felt appropriate these days to his mood. “Arthur, though? Arthur Pendragon? The same Arthur Pendragon who had me fired just for defeating his sister in a debate?”

Gaius raised his eyebrow, presumably to let Merlin know he remembered it wasn’t _just_ that at all. It was more a case of Merlin technically not even being a student at the university and therefore having literally no grounds to be in the chamber, to successfully debate Arthur’s sister or not. Gaius surveyed him before draining his glass. He grimaced and tried to turn into a smile. “You know what they say about desperate times, Merlin.”

Merlin huffed, pushing the paper further away as if that would take the problem with it. “It says here he’s not interested, anyway.”

“Find a way to make him interested,” Gaius said, getting to his feet and reaching for his tweed jacket. “Time is running out.”

*

The town hall was hardly what anyone would call well-attended. Merlin would put most of the contents of his wallet on half the attendees only being there because they’d heard there’d be free soup. He sipped at his paper cup, tugging his scarf up and his hat down in an effort to conceal more of his face, and chose a seat near the back, two-thirds of a row away from a casualty from the Rising Sun who’d passed out and was snoring lightly and behind two old men whose only warmth appeared to come from their lengthy beards.

The session, such as it was, was in full swing. At the podium, Arthur was outlining a policy idea for how to speed up the trial time of those being held for minor magical offences by allowing people to plead guilty and pay a nominal fine, then do community service using their magic to restore old buildings so they might be used for housing or other assorted good deeds. That no-one was listening barely seemed to bother him—he listed the benefits, the way it would free the courts up to process actual crimes, as well as benefit communities around Camelot, gestured as if greeted by rapturous applause when all there was in the room was the odd shuffle of feet or burp.

“A pilot scheme, right here in Camelot, is what I’m proposing,” he said, “and then, should it prove successful—we could roll it out as far as Ealdor.”

Merlin looked up at the mention of his home town. As far as he was aware, Arthur had never been to Ealdor and would only know about it because Merlin used to talk about it. He checked his disguise, shooting covert glances at Arthur to see if he’d picked Merlin out, but his attention was focused on the notes in front of him.

As Arthur went on to reel off statistics so boring even Merlin tuned out, Merlin scanned the room.

Arthur’s supposed girlfriend Gwen was in the front row, her hair piled on top of her head and a stack of flyers on her lap that looked to have been printed with more enthusiasm than skill. The only other person paying attention had long dark hair scraped back into a bun and a notebook on his knee. The ink stains on his fingertips and the creases in his shirt said one thing: journalist.

Merlin hummed in consideration. If Arthur could drum up a reporter for as lacklustre a hustings as this, maybe Gaius was onto something. Poorly attended as this might be, at least Arthur had something to say. When Merlin had attended similar meetings held by Diggory and Peters, they’d shown up and shaken hands with people, somehow believing that was all it took to secure a vote. Lord Cocker had been worse—between emitting clouds of brandy breath and muttering about how he didn’t understand why all this couldn’t be happening in the grand hall of his own castle, he’d pontificated in soundbites that barely made any sense. _Camelot values! The return of prosperity! Keep Camelot Camelot!_

Two brief conversations were all it had taken for Merlin to come to the conclusion that no-one really understood what he was talking about, including Cocker himself. He had the money and the connections no doubt, but there was no way to build a campaign around hot air. Or not the kind of campaign capable of toppling someone like Morgause, anyway.

Merlin cradled his soup against his arm, regarding Arthur over the rolls of his scarf. It was hard to separate the man in front of him, who had passion for the law and spoke of tolerance for magic for practical reasons as well as ethical ones, with the person who’d sat at the centre of a herd of cackling sycophants in the Student Union bar, sinking pint after pint and coming up with increasingly complicated and dangerous hazing procedures to entertain and humiliate his acolytes. Merlin had spent most of their interactions sweeping up glass they’d broken during a rambunctious drinking game or trying to get them to be quiet, so others could study or chat.

People changed. Merlin knew that; he was hardly who he had been back then either, with anger burning in his veins but no purpose to guide it. He slipped out of the meeting before it ended, picking up a handful of flyers on his way out, rolling one question around in his mind: had Arthur changed enough to make him tolerable and had Merlin changed enough to do the tolerating?


	2. Employ logos (arguments of logic and fact). Explain your logic, use graphs, statistics, and charts.

Merlin fingered the scrap of paper in the pocket of his jacket. He didn’t really need it. Everyone knew where Arthur Pendragon worked, because he was frequently photographed on the steps of the rundown building, pontificating about some case or other that he’d just won. Merlin had been through dozens of clippings in the last week, memorising case details and scanning quotes for something he could use as an in. For a man who did so much good, Arthur managed to be remarkably pompous. _This is not a victory for me, but a victory for justice. Upholding the laws of Camelot is not my job, but my birth right. I will not stop until every citizen of the land feels safe and welcome on this soil_.

Down the street, an old woman slumped in a doorway, newspaper stuffed into her boots and two blankets, both more hole than blanket, pulled tight around her. With a wiggle of his fingers and a hushed word, Merlin warmed the lower one and a mug of soup appeared by her cardboard sign.

The woman looked in his direction, and Merlin darted up the steps. There was a reward for reporting unsanctioned magic and countless of his Druid friends had been banished or imprisoned for using their magic to help people rather than build defences or work for Morgause. Gaius said they couldn’t blame ordinary people for reporting; £100 was £100, enough to see most people through a few weeks, but it still stung to think that anyone he might do a favour for or offer healing to might only see the coins his life could be exchanged for.

He stood, contemplating the brass name plaque on the door. _Arthur Pendragon Esq._ and a string of letters denoting his various qualifications. Merlin had been rolling it around his mind since the meeting, looking for an alternative, going over and over all the other people who might fight the election instead. Maybe Merlin should revisit them all first. Maybe he could be more persuasive this time. More emphatic. More… something.

But much as he didn’t like it, he knew Gaius was right. To win votes from Morgause’s devoted followers, they needed to offer something else for them to believe in. Though it pained Merlin to admit it, they needed someone who could pontificate.

Merlin took a deep breath and opened the door.

The reception was crammed with both furniture and the destitute. Children in clothes so torn they barely deserved the term clambered over the arms of the sofas while harassed parents tried to get them to behave with various ineffectual threats. On the other side of the room, a man with chin-length hair sat behind a desk frowning at a computer so ancient, Merlin hadn’t seen one like it since he was a kid sneaking into the library. “Be right with you,” the man said, voice impossibly posh and eyes never leaving the screen. “I just need to—oh blast.”

The screen went blue, now bearing a message that it would be installing vital updates for the next 48 hours. The man grabbed a pen and a notepad and turned to Merlin with a strained smile. “How can I help?”

“I need to speak to Arthur Pendragon.”

“What’s it concerning?” the man said, waving at the room. “We’re quite heavily subscribed today, but if it’s urgent...?”

“I’ll wait,” Merlin said, and when the man lifted his eyebrows in surprise, added, “I just need to speak to him. It’s—er—private.”

"Right-ho. What’s the name?”

“Merlin.”

The man waited for a moment before realising more was not going to be forthcoming and made a note in his book. “Take a seat, Merlin. There’s coffee and tea over there, please do help yourself.”

Merlin followed his finger to a dresser that had seen better days, where a range of mismatched mugs jostled for space with cartons of milk and a coffee machine with a blinking light. He selected a pink mug with only one chip in the rim and filled it with coffee, eschewing the milk but opting for two sugars. He leant against the wall, watching the rest of the waiting room, noting snippets of conversation here and there and putting the stories of the lives of the various occupants together.

Most it seemed had fled, either from Cenred’s uncaring regime or the crime-ridden streets where warlords like Helios reigned. Some had come to Camelot on foot, others had paid their life savings to be smuggled over the border by people who were now blackmailing them. Merlin didn’t need to imagine the level of desperation that drove people to seek sanctuary in a city that was on its knees; he’d lived that life himself and only having a citizen of Camelot—Gaius—vouch for him had saved him from the process.

Elsewhere, those who practiced the wrong sort of magic mingled with people on the wrong side of the breadline who’d been done over by unfeeling landlords and had no recourse in a system set up to discourage complaining. It was a microcosm of the issues Camelot faced. The posters on the walls offered help and solidarity, them too exemplifying the welfare system: frayed and tattered and largely inadequate when compared to the scale of the need.

Two voices stood out as having a different story: a young couple who worked for Morgause clung to each other and whispered about leaving, whether it might be better not to cause any trouble after all. Though Merlin craned to listen for more details, they were obviously too afraid to say more where they could be overheard.

The door to the office, which had _Arthur Pendragon, Pendragon Associates_ etched into the glass, opened, and its occupants backed out, still halfway through saying goodbye. Two teenage children shuffled on embarrassed feet while the parents profusely expressed their gratitude.

Behind them stood Arthur himself.

Despite his lofty background, he wore a suit that was far less nice than he could afford, his sensible burgundy tie slightly askew and his hair just disarrayed enough to suggest he didn’t care about it, even though it had obviously been waxed meticulously into position. His face had thinned since university, a hardness to the set of his jaw, but his eyes still had that sparkle which Merlin had learned to appreciate was what people meant by charisma. Arthur had always had the kind of manner which commanded a room. It was one of the things which made sweeping up after his gang so unbearable, the attention it brought from literally everyone in the bar.

Arthur followed the family out, accepting grateful hand grabs and garbled thanks, smiling benevolently as they backed away towards the door. When they were finally gone, he turned to the desk. “Who’s next, Leon?”

The man at the desk—Leon, Merlin supposed—gestured to the young couple. “This is Carey Montgomery and Michael Grant, from the Magical Defence Programme. They need urgent counsel.”

“Well let’s see what we can do.” Arthur smiled his benevolent smile, gesturing towards his office with an open arm. “Come through.” He watched as the couple stood, hunkering together and shuffling through the doorway, before making to follow them. And then he stopped, frowned, and looked straight across the room to where Merlin was leaning on the wall. “Merlin?”

“Yep. It’s me,” Merlin said, adding a little wave with his chipped pink mug and then immediately wishing that he hadn’t.

“Er—” A look of almost panic flashed across Arthur’s face, but he gathered his composure quickly. “Leon, could you arrange some tea?” He gestured to the couple in his office. “I just—I just need—a moment.”

Arthur walked over, his gaze pinning Merlin to the poster about opening times at the local food bank, which had been crossed out several times and extended. “Has something happened?”

Merlin bit back the urge to say that quite a lot of things had happened, actually, since Arthur ignominiously ejected him from the university and ruined his life. It didn’t seem like quite the moment to bring that up, though. “I’ve got a proposition for you,” Merlin said. “It’s not really a five-minute thing. I can wait until you’re done.”

“I’m never really done, Merlin. The work I do here is… ongoing.”

Merlin rolled his eyes. Supercilious prick. “You’re not the only person with a To Do list.”

Arthur’s forehead creased. “Of course, you’re welcome to wait. There’s coffee over—”

Merlin raised his mug. “Yep. Got that.”

“Right,” Arthur said, and took a step back towards his office. The frown deepened. “Right, then. We’ll—yeah. Later, then.”

*

It took another five hours, and six cups of coffee, for the waiting room to clear.

Arthur saw everyone out the same way, with a firm shake of their hand and a promise to do whatever he could, a good-natured smile that said he acknowledged the seriousness of their predicament but serious predicaments were what he did every day.

Merlin wondered how long it had taken him to perfect that smile, if he’d practised it in his room in the dormitories or picked it up during work experience with one of his father’s old buddies. Merlin’s leg jiggled against the chair that had at long last become free, but he kept his focus steady when Arthur finally turned to him, gestured to the empty office, and said, “Shall we?”

Arthur told Leon he could go home, that he would lock up after himself, and Leon tipped his head at both of them before grabbing his satchel and long coat and making for the door.

Arthur’s office was, Merlin suspected, like most lawyer’s offices: it had just enough chairs to make a person feel intimidated, to demonstrate that this space belonged to Arthur. He sat in that wingback by the bookshelves to contemplate things, on the sofa to read through the files arranged on the coffee table while he ate the lunch someone else made for him. He was important enough to have an office with zones for thinking and reading and eating, not just working, so as a person who came here in need of his help, you’d better sit your bony arse on the hard wooden chair on the other side of the desk to his leather one, shut your mouth, and be grateful for his time and attention.

Merlin sat on the sofa.

A brief perplexed look crossed Arthur’s face, reminding Merlin of the time Arthur had encountered him sweet-talking one of the kitchen staff into letting him have a bag of grated cheese that was past its use-by date, and offered Merlin a job cleaning his room for some extra cash. He’d been baffled when Merlin said no. People like Arthur didn’t understand that swapping favours with someone who understood your situation because it was theirs too was completely different to accepting pity employment that involved picking up other people’s pants.

Folding his arms across his chest, Arthur perched on the corner of his desk. “So. Long time no—what the hell are you doing here?”

Merlin had gone over what he was going to say for days. He had it all down, the way he’d lay out the state of Camelot and what was at stake, how he’d put aside his own pride and appeal to Arthur’s sense of decency, beg if he had to, for the good of Camelot. That all drifted out of his head like smoke. “Someone needs to stand against Morgause in the election. Gaius thinks it should be you.”

"You said it wasn’t a five minute thing. Telling you _no_ doesn’t take five minutes—it takes less than ten seconds. _No._ There, I just did it.”

“You won’t even consider it?”

“I’m not a politician.”

Merlin met his eye, trying to ascertain what he needed to say. There was a twinkle of something in there. Flattered? Was Arthur flattered to be asked? Wanting to be persuaded?

“Yet. You’re not a politician _yet_ ,” Merlin said, leaning forward a little. “You could be. Anyone could be with the right background and team around them. You’ve got the first one. No one in Camelot is as equipped as you in terms of connections and public goodwill. And I can help you with the second.”

“I’d heard you were involved with the Albionists.”

“So are you. You’re a member. I checked. You might not show your face at meetings, but you’ve voted on every policy issue for the last three years by post. That makes you eligible. You don’t need a seat to run for Ruler so long as you’ve got party approval.”

Arthur dug his fingers into the crook of his other arm, wrinkling the fabric of his mid-price suit. Some debate was happening inside his head; Merlin could almost see him biting down on the impulse to make a crack about Merlin keeping tabs on him. “If anyone could do it, why don’t you stand yourself?” Arthur said.

"Because I can’t afford to,” Merlin said. “I could barely afford one run of flyers, let alone a whole campaign.”

Arthur huffed. “So this is what it’s really about. Money.”

"No,” Merlin said. “I mean yes—money’s part of it. Of course it is—not even the most brilliant person can win on merit alone in a system as weighted as this one. That’s why we need someone who has both—the money _and_ the ideas.”

Arthur didn’t react, not a single flicker of emotion passed across his face.

“I saw you speak,” Merlin said. It made him feel small and vulnerable to admit it, like he’d snuck into Arthur’s room and read his diary. “Magic isn’t just an ethical issue anymore, it’s a practical one. So many prosecutions the system can’t take it, and it’s achieving nothing. I think that’s why you’d be such a good choice—you understand the system. You can sell people on a better one from the perspective of someone who really knows what’s at stake.”

“That’s not me.”

“Why not?”

“It’s just—I have a career. I can’t just give that up because your lot have failed to find someone with an actual political background.”

“That’s not why I’m—”

“My answer is no, Merlin.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched and suddenly Merlin was back at the Student Union bar, ready to read him the riot act about how he couldn’t disregard the rules that applied to everyone because he was a Pendragon, that closing time was closing time regardless of who his dad was.

“You’d rather stay here in your office,” Merlin said, waving at the walls, which were naturally decorated with pictures of Arthur with various people whose cases he’d triumphed in, “trudging through case after case after case rather than doing the sensible thing and changing the system that causes these people to come to you in the first place?”

“Oh, it’s that easy, is it?” Arthur said, pushing off the desk with a glare and pacing across the room. “Just _change the system_? You’re a genius, Merlin, why didn’t I think of that?”

"I’m not saying that it would be easy,” Merlin said. “But someone needs to stand up to Morgause. Someone needs to stand up for Camelot, for the people being harmed by her policies and—”

“What do you think I’m doing?”

“— _someone_ needs to stand on a podium and tell everyone why she’s wrong. Someone who has power actually has to use it for those of us who don’t.”

Arthur’s glare softened a little and the arm he had been waving around in frustration dropped to his side. He thrust his hand into his pocket and cocked his head as if to say he was listening.

“Magic shouldn’t only be for those who want to use it in ways she approves of,” Merlin said, getting to his feet. “We should be using magic for the good of society, not only for some—defence programme. Everyone who has magic should be free to use it. Druids. Ordinary people. Anyone who has the gift of magic should be able to use it how they choose to.”

“To a lot of people, that sounds like anarchy.”

“Do you believe that? Do you believe the people who were in here earlier are capable of creating anarchy? Or do they just want to be left alone to live their lives rather than being forced to work on approved fortifications for a pittance and left to starve?”

Arthur sighed. “It doesn’t matter what I think. She’s unstoppable. Even my father thinks so.”

“What sort of society do we have,” Merlin said, leaning forward and resting his gaze unflinchingly on Arthur’s, “if we only fight the battles we think we can win?”

Arthur rocked back against the desk as if the words had hit him in the chest. One side of his mouth hitched into a smile and he let a soft breath of amusement out of his nose. “I’d forgotten,” he said, “how persuasive you can be when you put your mind to it.”

Merlin dropped his shoulders, which had apparently been hunched about his ears. “Think about it,” he said, more softly. “It’s not about the winning. Not really. It’s about giving a voice to all the people who come in here, day after day after day. I saw them, Arthur. I listened to them, to their stories. They’re not just hungry and poor, they’re starved of hope. This is a chance to engage in a debate of ideology. That thing you said about equality not being weakness—people need to hear that. They need someone to show them there’s another way. Even if you lose—it’ll change things, Arthur. To see someone like you stand up and fight that fight will change everything. I know it will.”

Arthur considered him for a long moment. “Say I say yes—” Arthur paused, gaze switching between Merlin’s eyes as if the future might be glimpsed there. “—is there even time to put together a campaign?”

Merlin adjusted the collar of his shirt in lieu of a bowtie. “Of course there is. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think we could do it. You said it yourself—I can be very persuasive when I put my mind to it. And my mind is to it. My mind has very little else to do, these days. Ask Gaius. He’s always telling me to get a hobby.” 

Arthur let out a soft chuckle, considering him, and Merlin imagined all the people who’d sat in here, desperate for the famed Pendragon to fight their corner. Did they feel like this? Like their life, like the entire future, rested in his hands?

“I really think we can do this,” Merlin said. “Or not that, even. I really think we have to do it, whether we think we can or not.”

The breath Arthur took seemed to suck all the air out of Merlin’s lungs. He balled his fists and willed Arthur to say yes.

“It was good to see you, Merlin,” Arthur said. “I’ll think about it.”

*

“Thanks for agreeing to meet me,” Merlin said, swerving a small child who was making for the lunch queue.

Gwen pushed her curls out of her face with the back of her hand. “Sorry it’s so hectic in here,” she said and looked around at the gaggle of kids who’d just fallen through the same door Merlin had opened and then not been able to get to close properly.

“It’s not your fault,” Merlin said. “It’s Morgause’s. If she paid people enough, they wouldn’t need to send their kids to places like this just so they could eat.”

Gwen lifted an eyebrow, handing one of the apples she was carrying to another small child. “Eat it slowly,” she said, and the child nodded and ran off to join their siblings at a rickety table in the corner. “Not often you hear someone say something like that.”

“Depends who you talk to, I expect,” Merlin muttered, trying to take everything in.

One thing was abundantly clear: the food bank wasn’t just a food bank.

A bit of cursory research had revealed the building belonged to Arthur’s father, that it was earmarked for demolition and while the paperwork was being processed, he’d agreed to let Gwen set up something of a community centre in it. Along with dispensing donated food and collecting past its sell-by date produce to turn into hearty lunches for the needy, they provided healers to do basic check-ups, and anyone needing legal help was given directions to Arthur’s office.

The place wasn’t much to look at. The walls were cracked and the brightly-coloured paint that had been daubed over the top could barely hide it, but pinned up amongst the posters about worker’s rights and housing support were ones for free music lessons and art classes, community seed and plant giveaway events and a clothes swap for kids who’d outgrown their clothes to acquire ones a size up.

It reminded Merlin of where he grew up: everyone mucking in together to make the best of what he now knew was quite a shitty lot. His mother would organise bake-ins with windfall apples collected from the surrounding countryside, bulk-buy flour when she could afford to so she’d have enough to send everyone home with a pie she’d taught them to make. She’d have seen only the good in a place like this, talked about how nice it was to have a roof without holes in and windows that only had a few panes missing and could be easily made watertight with a bit of tape and cardboard. She looked on the bright side of everything.

At least she did in public.

At home, sometimes, when they were sitting in front of the fire and putting off going to bed because they both knew it would be so much colder upstairs, she’d let her smile slip into a frown and recount her worries about bills and the future over a cup of coldening cocoa.

Merlin missed her. She’d been adamant he come here for a better life, but he wasn’t certain that’s what this was at all.

“What can I do for you?” Gwen said. “Are you working with that reporter—Dwaine, was it? He said he might send a photographer.”

“Gwaine?” Merlin offered. “Gwaine Green from The Camelot Chronicle was here?”

“Oh yes, he spent a whole afternoon talking to the kids.” She leant in, eyes smiling. “It was craft day and I think he rather liked it to be honest. There was more glitter on him than some of the four-year olds by the time he left. Suited him—but don’t tell him I said so. That man needs literally no encouragement.” She folded her arms in a rather Arthur-like way, smiling at Merlin. “So what can I do for you?”

“It’s actually not about this,” Merlin said, gesturing to the room. “It’s great but—that’s not why I’m here. I need your help. I need your help with Arthur.”

*

The Camelot Chronicle was in the centre of town, housed in a building that looked squashed between two pubs which now appeared to be holding it up. A quick survey of the inside—awash with cluttered desks and a lot of post—allowed Merlin to ascertain that few people actually worked in there, and Gwaine Green preferred to take a desk next door at the Rising Sun.

Merlin entered the pub, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the low light. On the air was the thrum of a guitar from the radio and the smell of stale beer and roasted peanuts. There was no one behind the bar, but a man sat at it, nursing a pint and scribbling notes in a battered notebook.

“Hi, I’m looking for Gwaine?”

The man leant back on his stool, tucking both hands behind his head and cradling his bun. It was the guy from the town hall, ink stained fingers and all. “And you found him, it’s your lucky day.” He gaze raked Merlin’s chest. “Or mine, mayhaps. Hello. It is _very_ nice to meet you.”

“Ah,” Merlin said, flushing. “Gwen said you were—”

“Oh, you’re a friend of Gwen’s?” Gwaine pulled out the stool next to him. “Why didn’t you say. Any friend of Gwen’s is a friend of mine.” He patted the seat. “Park yourself and tell me if you prefer coffee or dinner for a first date.” He grinned, broad and bold and twinkly in a way that actually did something funny to Merlin’s knees. “And also your name. Unless you just want me to call you _Handsome_ , which is fine with me but might be a little awkward when I introduce you to my mother.”

Merlin sniggered, clearing his throat and depositing his bag on the bar. He swung onto the stool, noting the way Gwaine turned towards him so their knees had no option but to brush. 

Incorrigible.

Merlin liked him already.

“When you’re ready, Mike,” Gwaine called down the bar to a small room at the end, which had a door with a sign saying _staff only_ but appeared to contain nothing but a stack of crates and a dishwasher emitting a lot of steam. He turned back to Merlin with a lopsided smile. “So. You gonna tell me why you’ve gone to the trouble of tracking me down? Most people just leave a note on my desk.”

Merlin leant closer, lowering his voice. “I’m here because I liked your article.”

“A fan as well as devastatingly attractive,” Gwaine said, with a sly grin. “Which one?” Merlin opened his bag and ferreted out the clipping, sliding it across the bar towards him. “Ah, that one.” Gwaine lifted his glass to his lips. “Bit of a Friday afternoon effort, truth be told.”

“No, it’s—it sums things up perfectly. Who are we if we only fight battles we think we can win?”

A large man with a ruddy face and tiny glasses emerged from the dishwasher steam.

Gwaine ordered another pint for both of them and a couple of chasers, the choice of which he left to Mike. The lot were added to his tab and once the drinks had been assembled, Mike shuffled back to the kitchen.

“Cheers,” Gwaine said, lifting one of the shot glasses and gesturing with it for Merlin to do the same.

“They’re chasers. Aren’t you supposed to—”

“You always follow the rules, Merlin?”

Merlin frowned. “How’d you know my name? I didn’t—”

“Gaius told me he had a protégé. When you see two and two holding hands, chances are they make four.”

Merlin met Gwaine’s eye and they crinkled around the edges, like he was used to people assuming things about him and defying their expectations. Merlin lifted one of the glasses with clear liquid in. “Bottoms up, then,” he said.

With a clink they knocked them back, Gwaine wiping his mouth on his sleeve before reaching for his pint and taking a long swig. “So,” he said, “you got a story for me?”

Merlin toyed with his own pint glass. That’s why he’d come here, to feed Gwaine a story about Arthur considering the candidacy, hoping that the wave of support Merlin was expecting—and would create if he had to—along with Gwen’s persuasion would tip Arthur’s decision in Merlin’s favour. Now he was here, though, that seemed rather small and shallow. After all, if he’d convinced Arthur at all, it was with Gwaine’s words.

“You believe in change, Gwaine?”

“What sort of question’s that?”

Merlin sipped at his beer. “An honest one. A lot of people don’t. They want change. They hate the status quo and what it does to them, and they want something better. But they don’t believe things can change. They think the way things are is just the way things have to be. And because they don’t believe change is possible, they can’t do anything to create it.”

Gwaine considered him a moment before scratching the back of his head, making a strand of hair fall from where he’d pulled it back. It made him look less wolfish, more like an artist missing a garret.

Merlin toyed with the newspaper clipping, leaning in and lowering his voice. “The things you wrote—”

“Don’t mistake the half-cut ramblings of a man on a deadline for something profound, Merlin.”

“Why not? You were right.”

Gwaine laughed so hard he tipped back on the stool, lifting at least two legs off the ground. But when he came back, he looked at Merlin, mirth sliding from his features. “You’re serious.”

At Merlin’s nod, he smiled to himself, shaking his head. He caught a beermat advertising Armour Ale with a knight staring out through a visor underneath his fingertip and span it around on the polished wood of the bar top. “Sure I do, then. Sure I believe in change. One of the reasons I write all that stuff is because I want to do my bit, but alas words are all I’m good at.” 

Gaius would tell Merlin to be cautious, that any journalist should be handled with immense care, but something in Merlin’s stomach told him that here was an opportunity he’d be a fool to miss. “Arthur Pendragon’s thinking about taking the candidacy.”

“Well that _is_ a story,” Gwaine said, eyes widening.

“What do you think?”

“Front page material and no mistake.”

“That’s not what I meant. I meant what do you think about his chances. If he actually ran, do you think he’d win?”

“Honestly?” Gwaine said, brow crinkled in thought. “There’s a lot going for him. More than anyone else who’s name has floated through the quagmire of apathy that is the opposition party.”

“But?”

“He’s not enough. He’s good—but he’s not enough. You need the whole package. You need the doting fiancé—”

“He doesn’t have a—”

Gwaine lifted an eyebrow.

“Oh.”

“And you need his father. United Albionists these days—people know they couldn’t find their own arse with two hands and a massive sign that reads _arse this way_. But Uther Pendragon? For right or wrong, people respected him. He stands up and says my son is your man, they’ll believe him.”

“They voted him out, though.”

“They voted out a grieving man who’d lost his way in favour of a promised future that never came.”

Merlin’s breath caught; he imagined Arthur delivering that line to a packed crowd.

Reaching for the clipping, Gwaine assessed the picture of Arthur the way Merlin had. “He’s photogenic and people are curious about him. With the right handling, he could be in every newspaper by the end of the week.” Gwaine took another gulp of beer. “We’d need a constant stream of stories—Arthur staying late at night to help whatever poor wretch the system has spat out—we need stories about how proud his fiancé is of the stance he’s taking and his commitment to his work alongside his political ambitions. He needs to seem like a champion, that his _work_ and the results of it have shown his father—his own father—that magic needn’t be feared, that we can embrace it and prosper. That’s how you get your change. Human interest. You want people to believe in change, you need someone like Arthur to do it first.”

At the end of the bar, the phone rang and Mike shuffled out to answer it. “S’for you,” he said, holding the receiver out to Gwaine.

Gwaine grimaced and took it. “Hello, this is—”

Whoever it was launched into an immediate diatribe. Merlin picked out the words _useless_ and _good for nothing_ , wincing in sympathy at the increasingly vitriolic tone.

“I’ll—next—just give me a couple of—” Gwaine held the receiver further away and a garbled string of swearwords filled the bar. “I appreciate you’ve strong feelings on the—” He ducked at whatever volley of insults were being slung his way. “Ok, ok—I understand. I’ll—ok.” With a sigh, he handed the phone back to Mike. “Ahh shite.”

“Trouble?”

“It appears I’ve a slight…housing situation.” Gwaine cocked his head. “As in, I don’t have one anymore and my stuff—minus a few valuable items—is currently on the pavement of the least reputable street in the city.”

Merlin’s heart raced. It couldn’t be this easy, could it? “What would you say to a job and somewhere to stay?” he said.

“I would say never look a gift horse in the mouth. Or any other orifice, for that matter.”

“Great,” Merlin said, grabbing a pen and scribbling his address down on the beermat. “Go and retrieve your things and meet me here later.”


	3. Stay on topic. Focus on what you’re actually debating. Attempting to side-track gives the appearance of not having solid reasoning.

_ The Camelot Chronicle, 7 _ _ th _ _ December  _

_Rumours continue to circulate this week that Arthur Pendragon is about to announce he’ll be standing in the upcoming election. Sources close to him claim official word is only days away, but they needn’t rush. The mystery surrounding the will-he-won’t-he chatter of the past few weeks certainly has helped give the endeavour a kick-start. Journalists and supporters alike have been camped outside his offices, generating considerable buzz around the campaign before it’s even begun._

_I headed down there to see what people were saying. The atmosphere was akin to that before a carnival, a tentative optimism, the air full of whispers of great things to come. John, a carpenter who’s worked on Morgause’s magical fortifications, told me change was long overdue._

_“It’s not like it was in the old days,” he said. “An honest day’s work used to be enough to buy you food and shelter in Camelot. Now, it’s barely enough to get you to and from your job. Honest people, working people, we shouldn’t have to live in poverty.”_

_It was a sentiment echoed through much of the assembled crowd. I spoke to healers and apothecary owners alike who told of the number of people they saw every week who showed symptoms of chronic fatigue, malnutrition, and deep-seated stress. “There’s only so much we can do,” one of them who didn’t want to be named for fear of repercussions told me. “It’s like we’re putting sticking plasters on gaping wounds, a potion here, a poultice there when what people need is a different society to live in, one that doesn’t keep everyone in a constant state of deprivation and exhaustion.”_

_A group of teachers from a nearby school stopped by to see what the fuss was about, sharing stories of crumbling classrooms, having to buy their own paper and ink, of pupils who couldn’t concentrate in the morning for lack of food. They left with homemade flyers a man in his 80s was handing out. He’s not part of the campaign, he said. Just wanted to do something._

_Arthur Pendragon it seems has sown the seeds of a grassroots campaign, becoming a talisman for the fight against austerity and injustice._

_Pendragon himself is yet to comment, telling assembled reporters last night as he left after a long day preparing for Montgomery-Grant case that they should know not to believe gossip since they create so much of it. His girlfriend Gwen Smith, who accompanied him, was more forthcoming, confessing she thought Arthur would be, “an excellent champion for the disadvantaged, should he choose to enter politics.”_

_On the other side of the political fence, advisors close to Morgause are reportedly rattled by the talk of a Pendragon entering the race._

_And they should be: her approval rating has dropped almost 5% in the last month alone. The mere threat of a contender of Pendragon pedigree it seems has stirred voters out of the apathy to which Morgause’s government has become accustomed. However, an insider tells me they’re struggling to get Morgause to take the threat seriously, that attempts to address the Pendragon Problem—as they’re supposedly calling it—attract ire but no thoughts of solutions. Morgause would rather concentrate on the ongoing negotiations with Cenred than the upcoming election._

_Whether Arthur Pendragon throws his hat into the ring or not, complacency like that deserves challenging._

_Gwaine Green is a columnist for The Camelot Chronicle._

Gaius’s study was one of Merlin’s favourite places to be, usually. The shelves of books which lined the walls, their embossed covers glinting in the lamplight alongside the old apothecary equipment with labels in Gaius’s scrawl, made him feel cocooned in knowledge, like the answer to any of life’s problems might be found within these walls. The first time he’d come here, he’d felt impossibly daunted by all the things he didn’t know, had spent the next four years poring over books, running his fingers over faded drawings of plants with mystical properties while Gaius grumbled about the lecture he needed to prepare for. He always moaned about not having time for any of Merlin’s questions, before spending an hour or two answering them—and a dozen more besides—anyway.

Camelot University was lucky to have Gaius. Everyone said so. There wasn’t anything he didn’t know about the history of the place and his private collection of volumes on apothecary and botany were unrivalled. People came from faraway kingdoms to see if he had a specific, elusive volume, and Merlin used to marvel sometimes that he had free, unfettered access to things the most noted scholars had to ask to borrow.

Tonight, though, Merlin found himself pacing the shelves looking for distraction as Gaius read the hot off the press newspaper Merlin had brought for him, not wanting to glance over to see if he was done yet for fear of giving away how badly he wanted Gaius to tell him he’d done the right thing.

At last, Gaius drew a long breath. “The Pendragon Problem,” he said, removing his glasses from where they were perched on the end of his nose. “It’s certainly got a ring to it.”

He placed his glasses on the desk next to the lamp and steepled his fingers in front of his face.

“Why the frown?” Merlin asked. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

“If Arthur is genuinely considering running, then I am.”

“You don’t look it.”

Gaius smiled, folding his hands on the papers on his desk, which were clearly nothing to do with any course he was teaching. “How’s that?” he said.

“Better.”

Merlin sat down on the corner of the desk, skimming the shelves. _101 Uses for Anthracite_ , _Common Antidotes for Uncommon Poisons_ , _The Apothecary’s Almanac_. Nowhere in there was a guide for what to do in a situation like this, where a Ruler had left their people to ruin out of apathy and self-interest. Merlin had laid awake every night for a week turning it all over, why it fell to him to persuade someone like Arthur, why Arthur didn’t just automatically want to do the right thing. He’d ranted it all to Gwaine over slightly too much whiskey, formulated a plan to create a stir outside Arthur’s offices so he’d see the support he could garner, but still every minute, it drummed in his head: _not enough, not enough, it’s not enough._

“You don’t think the party will accept him?” Merlin said.

“I think at this point they would accept a pot plant,” Gaius said, “if it had Arthur’s cash reserves.”

Merlin murmured. The party meetings he’d been to involved a lot of tongue-biting and a fair bit of Gaius standing on his foot to remind him that letting his disagreement out of his head was not always the wisest decision. “You’ll talk to them? Warm them up?”

“I’ll make some calls,” he said. “We’re running out of time for him to declare his intention, though.”

“I know. I’m going to speak to Morgana—”

“Morgana?” Gaius said, eyebrows leaping. “Why on earth would you talk to—”

“She can give him the nudge he needs. And we’ll need Uther,” Merlin said.

“ _Uther?_ ”

“To endorse Arthur. Uther would never talk to me, but if I can persuade M—”

“Uther will never endorse Arthur if he’s running on a platform of magical rights—you know how he feels about magic.”

“Does he hate magic more than he loves his son?”

Gaius paused, frowning, tilting his head in consideration.

“Morgana can talk to him. She will if I ask her to—I know she will. And he dotes on her.”

The fire crackled in the grate, and Merlin was reminded of all the nights they’d sat here, surrounded by books—Gaius pretending he wasn’t checking what Merlin was reading over his shoulder and Merlin pretending he wasn’t memorising spells to practice when he was alone. Gaius had always been strict about the actual use of magic, that knowledge and theory was one thing but practical application was another and should only be attempted under properly controlled circumstance. They’d argued about it quite often, but if Merlin hadn’t defied him, he wouldn’t know half of what he does now.

Gaius considered the newspaper again. “This is a dangerous game you’re playing, Merlin.”

“You told me to do what needed to be done,” Merlin said. “So I am.”

*

The Pendragon house was in an area Merlin seldom had occasion to visit. Unlike the rest of Camelot, which looked as if it had been shoved together haphazardly, the streets here were sparsely populated and tree-lined, and imposing houses towered over anyone thinking to walk them. There weren’t any homeless people nestled in the doorways with signs made of old cardboard boxes begging for small change to help them buy food, and the windows had real curtains instead of copies of The Camelot Chronicle pasted onto the panes to keep the chill out. On the corner was a restaurant called Milk and Honey with two men stationed outside. Ostensibly it was to hold menus ready to hand out, but to Merlin they looked more like guards placed there to ensure only the right kind of people took a seat on the terrace.

Last week, Morgana had been pictured there twice, most of her face hidden behind giant sunglasses as she entertained whatever suitor had fallen out of her phonebook. She was rarely seen with the same man twice. The society pages were full of gossip about the trail of broken hearts she left in her wake and how Uther would introduce her to various sons of his old friends in the hope she’d find someone who didn’t bore her.

Merlin imagined most of them were like the guys at uni who treated her like a shiny trinket, something to be obtained to adorn themselves with on special occasions, in the hope she would imbue them with undeserved status. He swallowed a swirl of memories: the late nights when she’d come to the Student Union looking for Arthur and found him instead; the bar deserted but for Merlin’s selection of tunes on the jukebox and the hum of the dishwasher. She’d sling her handbag on the bar and tell him how tired she was of men who couldn’t see her—including Uther and Arthur. He’d make her a drink and they’d swap talking about it for arguing about other things, music and ethics and magical rights.

And one night…well, they hadn’t done that at all.

This was a bad idea.

Merlin turned to leave, but the door clicked open.

“Merlin?”

With a wince, Merlin turned back.

Morgana stood at the top of the marble steps, a black silk dress that probably cost more than everything Merlin owned falling from her shoulders and one side of her mouth lilting into what Merlin knew better than to assume would become a smile. “Thought it was you, skulking about.”

“I was just passing.”

“You weren’t.”

With a sigh, Merlin climbed the steps, stopping a couple down from the top. He rearranged the strap of his bag to stop it digging into his shoulder, pulled down as it was by the weight of articles about Arthur he’d clipped and started carrying with him like a talisman and the bottle of celebratory whisky he’d promised Gwaine for organising the gathering outside Arthur’s office and ensuring all his journalist pals knew about it.

“Ok, I wasn’t.” Morgana’s gaze fixed on his face, that penetrating kind of curiosity she’d always had churning up his insides. “Have you heard?” he said.

“About what?”

“About the election. Arthur’s thinking of running.”

She considered it for less than a minute before saying, “He won’t win.”

“He will if the right people help him. If you help him.”

Morgana snorted in derision. “It’ll be a cold day in hell before that happens.”

Merlin had never really understood it, how Morgana and Arthur could hate each other as much as they appeared to. As a child, he dreamed of a sibling, someone who’d grown up in the same place and time with the same worries and dreams, someone he could confide in without worrying his mother, someone who’d be there when he was old. He’d asked Morgana about it one night after a particularly bad and all too public argument with Arthur, explained how he longed for a sister.

_Everyone wants what they don’t have, Merlin,_ she said, like it was obvious. _It’s easy to get along with a fantasy._

“Does he know you’re here?” Morgana said.

“Not…exactly?” Merlin said. “I’m just—putting out some feelers. About potential allies.”

“And you’ve identified me as one of those?” Morgana said, with not a little surprise.

“I know you believe in magical rights,” he said. “You can’t agree that Morgause’s way is the only one.”

Morgana looked over her shoulder towards the grand staircase. “That was university debate, Merlin. It wasn’t about what I thought, only winning the argument. You know that.”

The tilt of her head begged him not to press it.

“You’d be a valuable asset to any campaign,” Merlin said. “You should be doing more with your life than getting brunch with men who don’t deserve you.”

“Nice to know you’re keeping tabs on my love life, Merlin,” she said, and it looked as if she was going to say more, but behind her came footsteps.

“Morgana? Morgana? Who’s that?”

Uther Pendragon—who Merlin had only previously seen in the distance when he descended on the university like a celebrity—jogged down the stairs. His hair was more grey than not and his eyes alert for danger, a reflexive sort of readiness for action in his stance as he came to a halt and looked out at Merlin.

“Old friend from college,” Morgana said, turning towards Uther with an easy but entirely artificial smile. “He was just passing.”


	4. Enunciate. Practice tongue twisters to ensure you’re able to speak clearly.

_ The Camelot Chronicle, 8 _ _ th _ _ December _

_While rumours about Arthur Pendragon’s impending leap into the political sphere continue to swirl, the man at the centre of the whirlwind has had to focus on his day job._

_This week marks the start of a trial that could prove an important step on the road to magical emancipation. The two accused—Michael Grant, 22, from the Forest of Balor and Carey Montgomery, 19, from Mercia—will take the stand in what could become a landmark case against the government. They claim that workers’ rights inside the Magical Defence Programme, of which they are both former employees, is rife with safety violations, with senior managers encouraging humiliating and derogatory treatment of those with magic. They claim the treatment of workers is so inhumane, colleagues regularly fainted from lack of food and water, with breaks denied and monitoring systems in place to enforce almost impossible levels of productivity._

_The pair’s allegations include that almost all workers finished their shifts sapped of energy to the extent they could barely make it home, in contravention of time directives set out in the government’s own working regulations for the approved use of magic. Furthermore, they claim that such practices have been allowed to carry on unchecked by the government inspectors who are supposed to catch such things. Rather than covering up the treatment of magical tradespeople, the conditions were no secret amongst the upper echelons, and government employees at the highest level not only endorsed but encouraged it, with the threat of false claims of unsanctioned magical use dangled over anyone who voiced concerns._

_Such claims are hardly new, but crucially, the pair stole documents that indicate their treatment was not only routine but institutional, and part of a wider, government-mandated plot to ensure that anyone with magic was kept in their place. Leaked copies of the documents, which include emails to and from members of Morgause’s government—display a flagrant disregard for the health and safety of workers on site and some language that’s too colourful to print:_

> _Who do these kids think they are? They should be grateful they have work. Tell them to take their concerns and ***** ** ** ***** ****** or they’ll be looking at jail time. We’ll find something. There’s always something._

_The government is seeking to imprison Grant and Montgomery for breaking their contracts in order to speak out, along with a handful of charges for unsanctioned magic use that it claims would’ve been needed to remove the documents from their offices. Campaigners have said it’s a clear move to deter others from coming forward, a reminder that the government now prosecute minor unsanctioned magic use offences to the full extent of the law. In the case of prominent Druid and magical rights activist Aithne Bushmaker, who fought for recognition of Druids and freedom to practice magic in line with their beliefs rather than just for the benefit of the government, that meant being imprisoned for 20 years for a single protection spell around an important cultural site._

_Montgomery and Grant chose Arthur Pendragon to defend them—according to a close friend—because of his record of holding the government to account with his forensic use of their own legislation. Pendragon is expected to argue public interest supports their actions and that any move to silence them is illegal and that managers of the Magical Defence Programme should be prosecuted under the Workers Health Act originally passed by his father, Uther Pendragon._

_We approached both Pendragons for comment, and were told by Arthur’s assistant, Leon Knight, that it’s their policy not to comment on ongoing cases. Uther also declined our approach by time of going to print, but Morgana Pendragon, half-sister to Arthur, said, “It’s a fascinating case and we’ll all be watching closely.”_

_We will indeed, no one closer than those interested in whether Arthur Pendragon is really the champion of the oppressed that Camelot needs._

_The trial starts on Monday._

_Gwaine Green is a columnist for The Camelot Chronicle_.

The lights at Arthur’s office were still on and, outside, a small gathering of people still milled. Some had signs about justice and fairness, calls to the spirit of Camelot, others with quotes from Gwen’s speeches, more bore slogans about real magical rights or support for Montgomery and Grant. The signs were homemade, scrappy, written on cardboard torn from packaging, and on the railings hung an old bedsheet daubed with Camelot For The People and an old Druid symbol.

Inside, the reception was empty of everyone but Leon, who sat at the desk making notes while the computer showed him a spinning wheel.

“He should really buy you a new one,” Merlin said, and Leon looked up from his work with very little surprise at seeing Merlin there. “Is he in?” Merlin asked, jerking his head towards the closed door of Arthur’s office.

“Er—yes. I’ll just let him know you’re—”

“Don’t get up,” Merlin said. “You’re obviously busy.”

He knocked on the glass before Leon had chance to object, opening the door when Arthur called, “Enter.”

Arthur’s desk was piled high with books, a container of take away on the top with a fork abandoned in the top. Streetlight poured in through the window, beyond which a flag bearing a rune could partially be glimpsed. “It’s like being under siege,” Arthur said, without looking up. “I don’t even know what it means.”

“It’s Eihwaz,” Merlin said. “It’s a turning point. Transformation.” The word brought goosebumps to his arms. “How’s the case?”

“Is that why you’re here? To talk legal procedure and obscure bylaws?”

When Arthur finally looked at him, his eyes were shadowed and his skin drawn. Arthur was one of those annoying people who managed to even suit being tired, though. On him it looked like noble sacrifice.

“I was thinking you could announce your candidacy after the trial when you’re doing one of your speeches—‘this case helped me realise that we need to tackle the problem at its root rather than untangling each injustice when it’s had chance to take hold. That’s why I’ll be standing in the election.’ I’ll have something prepared, send it over tomorrow so you can review it.”

“I haven’t said yes.”

“You haven’t said no, either.”

Arthur smiled and tried to hide it, giving Merlin a peculiar flashback to the Student Union, empty bottles on the table, Morgana asleep on the sofa in one of the booths. Arthur sat glassy-eyed across the bar, his drinking buddies long since departed and the remains of a pint and an essay he was allegedly writing in front of him. He beckoned Merlin over, asking if there was any way to make sure Morgana got home safely.

“Can’t you take her?” Merlin said.

“She’d rather tip into a ditch and rot there than accept my help,” Arthur said. He reached for his wallet and pulled out around four times what a taxi would cost, sliding it across the bar and meeting Merlin’s eye. “You’ll take her yourself?”

Merlin nodded.

“You care a lot about her,” Merlin said, and Arthur did that same smile before tapping his nose.

Arthur pulled the newspaper out from underneath his folders and flicked through the photos of desolation and doom to Gwaine’s column. “Your handiwork, I take it?”

“Just giving you a little jumpstart. Like it?”

“It’s very…impassioned.”

“Glad you think so. Gwaine’s your new speech writer.”

“I make my own speeches all the time. I’m perfectly capable of—”

“You speak like a lawyer. It lacks poetry. That’s why Gwen’s words are on the placards outside, not yours.”

“People don’t want poetry. They want facts and leadership.”

“They want hope—and they’ve lived without it for so long, they need a picture painted for them of what it could look like, not a bunch of numbers telling them how awful things are. They already know that. They’re living it.”

Arthur looked as if he was about to lurch into a rebuttal, no doubt one full of the kind of statistics he’d bandied about at the town hall, when Leon stuck his head around the doorframe.

“Far be it from me to interrupt,” Leon said, “but I—I do think maybe Merlin has a point.” Arthur opened his mouth as if to object, before waving for Leon to continue. “The people outside are very…keen for you to stand,” Leon said. “They think you can turn things around, that you’d be fair. They’re with you all the way.”

Arthur reached for his take away carton and fished inside for something that looked like a limp spring roll. “Far be it for me to make my own decisions rather than listen to what a bunch of Druids and do-gooders want me to do,” Arthur said.

“Remind me how much you’re getting paid for that case?” Merlin said, gesturing to the pile of folders on the desk.

“That would be one of the pro-bono ones,” Leon said, with practiced innocence.

“Ah,” Merlin said, returning it. “So that would actually make Arthur one of the do-gooders, wouldn’t it?”

Arthur huffed, provoking a sniff of amusement from Leon, who met Merlin’s eye like a conspirator. “Can we run things from here or do I need to find somewhere else to act as headquarters?” Leon said.

“Here’s fine,” Merlin said, “since people have already started gravitating here.”

“I can clear the supply cupboard for a desk for you,” Leon said.

Merlin clutched at his chest. “I’m touched. I never had a desk before.”

“Get some pens,” Arthur said. “Make yourself giddy.” He turned back to his papers. “If you’re both quite finished, I do have actual work to do.”

Leon ducked his head and went back to his desk, beckoning Merlin to follow him.

At the doorway, Merlin turned back. “Are you going to win?” Merlin said.

Arthur gestured to the papers across his desk and his own tired eyes. “What’s it look like?”

*

Merlin climbed the metal fire escape to his flat, turning everything over in his head—the rune outside, if it meant the Druids were with him, if he could harness that, what would happen if Arthur lost the case, would they still be able to springboard a campaign off the back of it? Briefly he considered ensuring Arthur’s win with a spell, but the only way to do so would be to control the minds of the jury and he’d never been very good at that sort of thing. The key grumbled into the lock and Merlin kicked the bottom of the door where the rain had made the wood swell. He dumped his bag and coat on the kitchen table and grabbed a beer from the whirring fridge, following the noise of the radio down the short hall to the lounge.

Gwaine had well and truly nested in there, the sofa covered with a tangle of blankets which looked second or third hand at least, the table in front of it littered with Gwaine’s notebooks and old typewriter and all the coffee mugs Merlin owned.

“Someone called for you,” Gwaine said, as he punched at the ancient keys. “Woman. Didn’t want to leave a name.”

Merlin frowned. Normally the only person who called was his mother but there’d be no reason for her not to identify herself. “What’d she say?”

“ _Hello is Merlin there?_ ” Gwaine said, finishing his sentence and leaning back, stretching his arms across the back of the sofa. “Then when I said no, she said never mind, and hung up.”

Merlin sniffed a reply and threw himself down next to Gwaine, resting his head on the back of the sofa and staring at the damp on the ceiling.

“Long day, darlin’?” Gwaine said.

“Not really. Got a job for you, though.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Speech for Arthur. He’ll announce he’s running after he wins the Montgomery-Grant case.”

“Nice,” Gwaine said.

“Can you—I don’t know—call a couple of people and have them there to cover it? I don’t want it to be like some big press conference. I want it to feel—I don’t know—organic, or something.”

“Sure. I’ll get Mithian—she’s the best reporter from the Chronicle—she loves a bit of cloak and dagger—and then I know that guy at the Herald who writes the excoriating columns about Morgause’s apathy about the outer realms. You know Gwen’s brother has a radio show too, right?”

“I did not.”

“That’s why you need me.”

Merlin held his beer bottle out and Gwaine clinked his mug against it. “Could you whip up a press release while you’re at it? We should send one out, right?”

“Sure but—are you sure there’s not someone else who’d be more suitable? Someone from the party press office, maybe?”

“Have you read one of their press releases lately?”

Gwaine ran a hand over his stubble. “I’ll confess I’ve not exactly kept up with them. Touch on the dry side.”

“Exactly.”

Gwaine thought about it for a moment, before smiling almost shyly. “It’s a lot of trust you’re putting in me.”

“I know you won’t let me down,” Merlin said, because really it was as simple as that.

“Luckily for you, back in my day I was the king of boilerplate copy. I’ll speak to Gwen. Get some nice quotes from Arthur’s friends and family.” He paused for a moment. “Are we really doing this?”

“Looks like it,” Merlin said, taking a swig of his beer. “I’ve got a desk and everything.”

*

The court was packed. Every seat in the public galleries was occupied, sometimes by more than one arse, and outside a crowd had formed with banners and home-made placards demanding the acquittal of Montgomery and Grant.

It had been a tense week, with witness after witness called to testify. The government employees and cabinet ministers had been stalwart and cold, had done themselves no favours by attempting to bamboozle the jury by citing contract clauses written in deep legalese. Arthur had punctured each of their statements one by one, finding tiny holes and working them into gaping ones, picking up on minor discrepancies that completely passed Merlin by. It was like watching someone sword fight, draw an opponent out to the point where he could deliver the fatal blow and all they could do was curse themselves for not seeing it coming.

The employees from the Magical Defence Programme who’d taken the stand had all been wild-eyed, hands shaking, but Arthur had calmed them with his methodical approach. He had an almost gentle way of leading them to the point where they didn’t actually need to accuse Morgause and her people of anything directly. In a lot of ways, he let their fear say it all, and while they spoke, Merlin watched the judge, the way she grimaced when they recounted even the most innocent things, what a typical day looked like or how they felt at the end of it.

Montgomery’s testimony seemed to Merlin to be the key piece of evidence. After a shaky start when the government’s lawyer—a man with a bulbous nose and the air of someone who’d rather be in the middle of a five-course lunch—asked her if she understood the law around unsanctioned magic, she rose to the challenge, voice steady as she explained that yes she did, but the various violations she’d witnessed made her feel compelled to act. Her family had come to Camelot because of its values, she’d said, and she saw it as her duty as a citizen to uphold them.

Grant had done less well, falling apart until one of the clerks offered him a glass of water, the small act of solidarity inspiring him to rally a little.

And now the jury was out.

Merlin chewed his nail. “Does it normally take this long?” he said, turning to Gwaine.

Gwaine looked up from the dicks he was doodling in his notebook. “Big trial,” he said, “let the jury build their part and enjoy the theatre of it.”

Merlin sighed, wafting the front of his shirt. In truth, he was less concerned about the trial than how things would go afterwards. Arthur had refused to look at the latest version of the speech Gwaine had written for him, saying he needed to focus on his closing speech and all he’d need to do was skim it right before delivering it.

The thought that he might’ve changed his mind about running flitted through Merlin’s head for the thousandth time that day. He tried to ignore it, watching Gwaine add some hairs to the balls of his latest masterpiece. “Does your editor know she’s paying you to do that?” he said.

“Technically I’m here as part of the Pendragon campaign,” Gwaine replied. “So you’re paying me to do it.”

Merlin rolled his eyes and on his other side, Gaius leant in and offered him a boiled sweet. “You forget,” he said, “how long these things take.”

The lines on Gaius’s face barely told the story of how many trials he’d seen, how many acquaintances and friends he’d watched be sent away or put to death. He barely ever spoke about it, how he’d lived through both the darkest time for magic and the first signs of light, how he’d trodden the delicate line between advising Uther and pushing his own, dearly-held beliefs. Merlin took a hard toffee, sucking on it more for something to do than because he actually wanted it.

On the other side of the public gallery, people were craning towards the doorway, but the only person who came through it was one of the clerks with another jug of water for the defendants.

“They’re bricking it,” Gwaine muttered.

His approach to the trial was interesting. He focused less on the details of the arguments and more on the judge’s expressions and his sense of how the jury was reacting. He predicted that one juror was a hard-ass who’d hold out but that the others would convince him of what that Arthur had convinced _them_. Merlin hoped Gwaine was as good at reading people as Merlin thought he was.

For his part, Arthur sat at the desk next to the defendants, leaning over every now and then to offer them a word and one of his benevolent smiles, his hands folded in front of him. He looked impassive, disinterested, almost, but Merlin knew that it was all a show because Arthur had told him that it was. _Knowing the law is only half of it, Merlin. To be successful, you need to project reason, emit equanimity. The judge and jury need to believe you are right because you can’t possibly be anything else._

His opponent was a complete contrast, nervously fidgeting with his tie, checking the doorway every ten seconds as if expecting Morgause to descend any second and personally deal with his failure. It wasn’t a completely unfounded fear, although Merlin would be surprised if Morgause made an appearance for something as lowly as a trial.

“I’m surprised so many people turned up,” Gaius said, looking at Merlin askance.

His gaze said he knew—or at least suspected—that the only reason so many people were here was Merlin had sown enough seeds in enough places to suggest something interesting was going to happen, and had paid a few people he saw begging on his way over to put some more bums on seats.

As ever, he was a little bit surprised that it worked, that an atmosphere of anticipation could be created as easily as telling people there was something to anticipate. Even he could feel it, the frisson of excitement on the air. Being the architect of it didn’t make him immune to its effects, he supposed.

Finally the door underneath the public gallery opened and the judge came in, long ceremonial cloak dragging along the floor. The court stood, Arthur tugging down his tie and offering the judge a professional nod while Montgomery and Grant clung to each other. The jury filed back in to take their seats behind the judge.

Merlin looked at each and every one of them in turn, trying to ascertain from their expressions and where they were looking how they’d voted. The woman with the big nose was trying to catch Montgomery’s eye—that must mean she’d sided with them, surely?—but a row back, a man with long hair and dirty fingernails was staring at the ceiling as if making a bargain with his maker. Looking for absolution? That couldn’t be good.

“Oh-ho-ho,” Gwaine muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Gwaine, what?”

Gwaine elbowed him in the side and hissed, “Just watch.”

“In the matter of Camelot versus Montgomery and Grant, will the jury tell us how they find?”

The leader of the jury took to their feet and cleared their throat.

The court, as one, seemed to shift forward on an intake of breath.

Merlin balled his hands on his knees, digging his nails into his own flesh.

“Not guilty.”

A roar went up from the public gallery. Behind them, an entire row lurched to its feet and started whooping, even though Merlin knew for a fact several of the people on it were only there to get out of the rain. Maybe that was enough reason to celebrate, or they recognised themselves in the accused. Either way, Gwaine punched Merlin’s arm hard enough to knock him into Gaius, who was chuckling, “Well, well, well,” and looked to have a tear in his eye.

Down below, Arthur accepted shocked hugs from the couple before gathering his files together as if this had been nothing more than another day at the office. Pats on the back continued to rain down on him as he turned his head just enough to catch Merlin’s eye and give him the faintest smile. Merlin nodded back in tacit agreement before slipping out of the gallery and down to the front of the building.

The crowd assembled there clamoured for news, eager hands clawing at his clothes, eyes piercing as people hissed, “Verdict? Verdict? What’s the verdict?”

“Arthur’ll be out in a minute,” Merlin said.

His heart pounded. It was like the whole future of Camelot was on trial and had just been released. He noted the journalists Gwaine had arranged waving notebooks and cameras and craning their necks for Arthur, the group of Druids and do-gooders from outside Arthur’s office with their photocopies of Montgomery and Grant’s faces and their sheets daubed with slogans.

Behind him, commotion rolled out the heavy oak door of the court. Montgomery and Grant still clung to each other, but this time in jubilation rather than trepidation, and Arthur strode beside them.

The crowd surged forwards, Leon doing his best to hold people back enough to give Arthur room to speak. “It gives me great pleasure to report—” Arthur broke off, turning to gesture to his clients, clutching each other’s arms behind him. “—that my clients have been acquitted of all charges in what I hope will be a landmark victory for magical workers.” 

A defused rumble of approval rolled over the assembled people, those with placards waving them aloft as the journalists pushed forward to ask questions.

“What does this verdict mean?”

“How does it feel to defeat Morgause’s government again?”

“Can we expect policy changes on the back of this?”

Arthur quieted them all with a raise of his hand. “What Montgomery and Grant have achieved here sets a precedent for the rights of magical workers. It sends a message that their treatment must be in line with that of non-magical workers, that threats of unsanctioned magic use should not and cannot be used to silence them. Their courage will mean a brighter future for those with magic.”

Arthur paused, surveying the crowd.

“This case has not just been a turning point for Camelot, but for me personally. Working with Carey Montgomery and Michael Grant—who were prepared to sacrifice so much to bring the violation of magical workers’ rights to light—so closely on this, hearing their stories and sharing their pain, learning of the effect of the stress of this trial on those close to them, has given me a new perspective and a new purpose. For too long, we’ve seen cases brought against Morgause’s government as stories of individual hardship and suffering, as punitive measures that exist in isolation. But they are not. They are a social malaise which speaks to a rot which has taken hold throughout the entire system.”

Across the courtyard and beyond the chattering crowd, Gwaine leant against the wall, mouthing along with the words.

“I would like to formally declare my intention to stand for election on behalf of the United Albionists,” Arthur said. “I want to offer my services to all of Camelot, to restore it to prosperity for all—magical and non-magical folk alike—to break the cycle of poverty and deprivation which has us all in its grip. Camelot deserves a government which reflects the values of the people of Camelot. I believe if we work together, we can create a Camelot we are all proud to call home.”

Merlin watched the crowd, some of whom were waving their banners in approval and others of whom were exchanging glances with their companions.

One of the journalists—Mithian, Merlin guessed, pushed forward. “Do you think you can win?”

“Absolutely,” Arthur said and gestured to the crowd, who responded as if they’d rehearsed it with supportive cheers.

“What does your father think?”

“I will let you know when he sees the news.”

“What will the United Albionists manifesto look like?”

“It’ll be announced in due course,” Arthur said, with a deft smile which left no room for comebacks. “Now if you’re all excuse us—” He extended an arm to Montgomery and Grant and held it around them both as if to shield them. “—we have some celebrating to do.”

He guided them down the steps to the waiting vehicle, the crowd flowing around him as he moved until the only people left outside the court were Merlin, Gwaine, and Gaius.

“Well that went well enough,” Gwaine said. “Anyone for a drink?”

*

The Rising Sun heaved with a mix of regulars, Gwen’s friends, and the handful of potential donors Gaius could round up on short notice. It wouldn’t have been Gaius’s first choice of venue, or even on his list of potentials, but Gwaine pronounced it earthy, raising his glass. “Wait ’til the pictures hit the press.”

Merlin had to admit he was probably right. People would be expecting a person like Arthur to hire a grand hall—or more likely borrow one from one of his dad’s rich friends—not hole up with a pint in Camelot’s oldest pub. He looked across the bar to where Arthur was holding court on the subject of the plight of magical refugees, Gwen watching from his elbow.

Five years ago, mere mention of the subject in a place like this would’ve risked being set upon by disgruntled folk who felt they’d missed out on jobs taken by magical folk who’d fled their home realms. Now, even the oldest and most hardened nodded as Arthur regurgitated tales of despair and hopelessness, seeing kinship in the stories rather than enemies.

Merlin turned his glass around in his hand, watching the whiskey glint in the low light. There was no turning back now, but his thoughts roiled, wave after wave of how much there was to do and how little he’d actually prepared for it.

At Merlin’s side, Gwaine tossed a roasted nut into the air, catching it in his mouth. “He’ll do grand,” he said. “Stop fretting.”

“I’m not fretting.”

“You need a pep-talk, Merlin?”

“From you? No thanks,” Merlin said, and Gwaine elbowed him good-naturedly.

Gaius joined them, cradling what looked like a large sherry that one of the potential donors—an art dealer of some kind—had bought him.

“What’s the goss?” Gwaine said.

“Well Sir Peregrine over there is very interested to know if there’ll be a manifesto promise about taxes on donations. He thinks it’s about time good deeds were rewarded. Monetarily.”

“Duly noted,” Merlin said. “What’s it worth?”

“We’ll see,” Gaius said. “Of course we’ll need a proper donor dinner sooner rather than later.” He took a handful of nuts from the bag Gwaine offered. “Something with more than dry roasted nuts on the menu.”

Merlin grimaced. “Do we have to? I hate those things.”

“It’s a party, Merlin,” Gwaine said. “What’s to hate?”

“The—all of it?” Merlin said.

Gaius had dragged him to enough fundraisers to last a lifetime. He’d stood and patiently nodded through achingly dull conversations about the arts and magical history, had bitten his tongue through bigotry, had sampled canapés and subtly spat them into his own hand when they turned out to be dry biscuits with drier fish bits on. He’d done what he was supposed to, circulated and socialised and schmoozed, and all he’d learned is that sometimes an evening can feel like a really long year. 

“Tell you what,” Gwaine said, draining his drink. “Why don’t you leave it to me? I’ll talk to Leon. He looks like a man who knows what’s what.” He gestured to where Leon was standing at the bar, trying and failing to get Mike’s attention. “No time like the present.”

As he left, Gwaine passed Gwen on her way over.

“Guinevere,” Gwaine said, ducking to take her hand and kiss it. “Looking enchanting this evening.”

Gwen’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “And you’re looking—” She appraised Gwaine’s faded shirt, which had lost all the buttons halfway down the front and revelled most of his chest.

“The words you’re looking for are rugged and handsome,” Gwaine said, and wheeled her towards Merlin and Gaius in a move that seemed at once practiced and completely spontaneous.

After she’d come to a halt, Gwen rolled her eyes before smiling at both of them. “You must be very pleased with how things are going,” she said.

“Indeed,” Gaius said. “We were just talking about the donor dinner.”

Gwen turned, resting her hip against the table. “Oh?”

“You’ll help host it?” Gaius said, sipping his sherry.

“Yes,” Merlin added, perhaps a little too eagerly. “Great opportunity for you to talk to people about how this isn’t just about magical rights, it’s about poverty and working conditions and—”

“Do people really want to hear about that at a party?” Gwen said. “Especially from the likes of me?”

“The likes of you?”

“Working class, single parent family, you know, banging on about workers’ rights and childcare,” Gwen said, as if it was obvious. “I’m not usually on the guest list for those things, let alone the host.”

“But that’s why it’s perfect,” Merlin said. “Arthur’s whole campaign is about change. You don’t illustrate that by doing things the way they’ve always been done.”

In his periphery, he could see Gaius’s eyebrow raising, but Merlin went on regardless. “It’s part of my plan to… shake things up from the start. It’ll look like a donor dinner—it’ll have the fancy invites they’re expecting—but they’ll be—I don’t know—made from recycled parchment with seeds in that people can then plant and grow herbs with. And the food—it’ll look like fancy banquet food—but we’ll actually get all the ingredients the same way food banks do and use it to start conversations with people about how the top tier of Camelot creates all this waste while people lower down the food chain starve.”

“You’ve obviously given it a lot of thought,” Gwen said.

Merlin smiled as if he hadn’t just come up with all of that off the cuff. “Gaius is right,” he said. “If you host, it gives us an opportunity to start a lot of really important conversations.”

“How can I say no, then?” Gwen said, with a slightly nervous laugh.

“I’ll break it to Arthur tomorrow,” Merlin said. “I expect he’ll need a good hour to mutter about tradition.”

“You’ll convince him.”

“You reckon?”

“He thinks very highly of you, Merlin,” Gwen said, and leant in like it was a secret. “He’s always talking about you and your ideas. He trusts you completely.”

*

Eventually people filed out. Gaius took his leave claiming an early start at the university, Arthur and Gwen did a round of the room, shaking hands and hugging people, thanking them for coming, before heading home, while Gwaine strong-armed Leon into visiting a late-night place he knew with the promise of music that would blow his mind.

Merlin stayed behind to settle the bill and finish his drink, swirling the last of it in his glass, the feeling settling into his bones that when he woke up tomorrow, everything would be different. The arguments he’d been honing his entire life would no longer be theoretical. It was now his job to turn them into policy and to persuade people it was in their interests to vote for them. He’d been in the fight so long, it was strange to think the world he’d long imagined stood a chance of becoming reality; he couldn’t tell whether the churning in his stomach was anticipation or dread.

He was about to grab his jacket and leave when the door opened.

Morgana stood against the night, rain pouring down behind her. She shook off her hood and surveyed the bar, eyes meeting Merlin’s.

The blood in Merlin’s veins crackled. Always had. The first time she’d looked at him—really looked at him—when Arthur was saying something they both clearly thought was stupid, it had almost knocked him to the ground.

Elemental. That was the only word for how it felt.

“You’re late,” Merlin said, as she approached.

“Only if you assume I came to congratulate Arthur,” she replied.

Merlin turned to the woman behind the bar so Morgana wouldn’t see him smile. “Old Fashioned with an extra twist of orange and two cherries, please.”

“Sweet you remembered, Merlin,” she said, softly.

“Oh, that’s for me,” Merlin replied. “Get your own.”

With a soft laugh, Morgana stretched her arms out on the wooden bar counter, leaning into it like a cat. She was always different away from the prying eyes of Arthur and Uther and all their associated expectations of how she should behave. Then, she dripped poise and decorum, obeyed all the rules of high society that try as he might, Merlin could never see the value of. Merlin often wondered which version of herself she was with the guys she had lunch with in front of a not especially stealthy photographer.

“What are you doing here?” Merlin said. He smiled his thanks for the cocktail to the woman behind the bar and slid the glass towards Morgana.

“I was in the area. How was the big party?”

“Uneventful.”

She toyed with one of the cherries, swirling it through the liquid and leaving a thin trail of syrup in its wake. This one would be a little too sweet for her, he fancied. He’d made enough for her, late at night when she had nowhere else to go, to know. The first two he made her, she winced at, and he pointed out that there wasn’t much call for them in a student bar. Most of the regulars wanted pints of Snakebite and Black that would leave them with purple grins embedded on their lips and the concoctions they served which passed as cocktails were mixed with value for money in mind rather than taste.

Still. He’d asked Gaius for help, claiming it was a special he needed to perfect. Gaius had demonstrated the technique and gamely sampled ten or so of Merlin’s efforts before retiring, complaining the room was spinning. The next time Morgana came into the bar, she didn’t comment on the improvement, just raised one impeccable eyebrow and ordered another.

A week later, a rumour that she’d set fire to her bedroom was the talk of the campus. Arthur played it down with jokes about girls and their scented candles, but there was something desperate in his laughter that made Merlin believe he knew it wasn’t that at all.

Eventually she came in, one night when everyone else was in the other bar upstairs listening to some band Merlin can’t even remember the name of who were hotly tipped and—from what he could ascertain on his glass-collecting trips up the stairwell—absolutely abysmal. He made her drink before she’d even asked for it, noting the shadows under her eyes and how chewed her usually manicured nails were.

“Do you think magic is dangerous, Merlin?” she said.

“Can be,” he said. “In the right hands.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “The right hands?”

“Wrong ones. You know what I mean.”

She smiled to herself and Merlin knew with one tired slip of the tongue, he’d given far too much away.

She waited, after that, for him to say more about it, but it was more than Merlin’s life, let alone his job, was worth to confess he could make fire with a thought and command waves with a flicker of his fingers. He didn’t come all the way to Camelot only to get drafted into Morgause’s magical army, his own will replaced with her bidding, his talents stripped of imagination and purpose and his days filled with forging swords out of metal impregnated with his magic. Gaius had drummed into him the need to be careful, that one too true word and there’d be little he could do to protect Merlin from a life spent seeing his own magic used to imprison people like himself or wage a war against the outer lands, including the one Merlin grew up in.

All term, rumours about Morgana circulated: a party she’d been at where the windows imploded and Arthur claimed it was a rogue ball no-one saw him kick; a commotion in the canteen where she screamed at something no-one else could see; a debating opponent who went blind after calling her a stupid bitch. She came to try and drink it all away.

“I feel like I’m going mad, Merlin,” she said, one night, very late, the bar deserted, her fingers in her hair and resignation on her face.

All he could think to say back was, “Shhh,” and then a moment later, he was cradling her head, and not long after, kissing her.

After that….

The memory was all jumbled from too long spent trying not to think about it: the click of her glass on the bar and the warmth of her lips on his throat; the cool of the seat under her thigh and the thump of door behind his shoulders as they staggered to the kitchen; the orange on her tongue and the harshness of the floor as he sank to his knees. He could remember snapshots of it but not how they got from the bar to the kitchen, not if they talked, not how one thing triggered another. All he knew was he had never been able to look at the counter again without picturing her leaning against the edge of it, one hand pushing him onto his knees while the other tugged at his hair to move him where she wanted him, the way her knuckles turned white against the stainless steel as she came.

Merlin swallowed and she looked at him, like she knew exactly what he was thinking.

“Do you really think Arthur can win?” she said.

“It’s not about that,” Merlin said, “so much as having someone stand. And stand for something.”

Morgana’s fingers crept along the bar towards where Merlin’s hand was resting. They tapped lightly on the back and she met Merlin’s eye as he looked up in question.

“Show me,” she said.

Merlin turned his hand obligingly and she lined the tips of their fingers up together before running hers down towards his palm. Her nails tickled across his skin, making him want to curl his hand closed to protect it. She smiled, enjoying his reaction no doubt, before lifting his hand and moving it into better light. “Let’s see,” she said.

“Right, reveal my future,” he said, more dismissively than he intended.

Merlin didn’t know that much about palm reading. In truth, he steered clear of any of the methods favoured by non-magical folk that purported to tell the future or offer insight, tarot or tea leaves or palmistry. He knew there were lines for head, heart, life, all of it supposedly carved into your flesh. There was a woman in the village where he grew up who’d have all the other ladies, including his mother, over to read their palms, and the resulting findings would provide conversational fodder for the next few weeks. _Ooh Hunith watch out for that new gardener, your hand said you were due a spontaneous romance._ His mother had gamely laughed along, Merlin suspected indulging the phonies and fake magics as some kind of defence for his real thing.

Morgana lifted one eyebrow. “You have a very strong line of destiny, Merlin,” she said, making it sound like a soft accusation. “And you have a very strong connection to fate.”

“Doesn’t everybody? It’s fate. Isn’t it all encompassing?”

Morgana murmured in a way that meant he couldn’t tell at all if she was agreeing with him. She traced a path through the middle of his hand. “There’s a lot of emotional conflict here,” she said. “And heartbreak.”

Merlin was tempted to snatch his hand away in case she really could see his life there, split open for her dissection. But he didn’t. He let her trace all the crevices in his skin, let her press the mounds under his fingers and count the crosshatches across the long line through the middle of his palm.

Their heads were so close together, he swore he could feel her breath. Maybe that was what made the hairs on the back of his hand stand up.

“So many life lines. That’s….”

She trailed off, tilting her head in a thought that never formed.

“Sorry,” Merlin said, “if you thought reading my palm would be revealing and instead, all it did was turn me into an enigma.”

Something flickered in her eyes, like a spark trying to catch.

“Take me home?” she said.

“Don’t have a car, I’m afraid.”

Her smile turned up the corner of her mouth. “That’s not what I meant.”

The word _oh_ caught in Merlin’s throat as she tipped her head back and drained the glass.

*

Merlin was accustomed to waking up alone, which made being surprised to do it in itself somewhat surprising. He ran his hand through the sheets, as if Morgana might somehow have disappeared between two creases before thunking his head against the pillow.

The flat was silent. She wasn’t in the shower or making breakfast or any of the other things he might fantasise. What was he expecting? Flowers in a vase as she brought him all his favourite things on a tray while wearing one of his shirts?

He stared up at the ceiling. Glassy sunlight was starting to peek in through the thin curtains. He had a million things he should be doing rather than lying here thinking about the two of them, tugging at each other’s clothes before the door had even closed behind them, her back against the wall and his mouth against her shoulder, trying to hold onto a feeling he could already tell was only ever going to be fleeting.

But he had thought she’d stay, that they could’ve eked things out, traced patterns on each other’s skin in the incipient light of dawn. Talked, maybe, although he’s not sure about what.

Destiny?

Fate?

The lines on his palm?

He lay there for another moment and then hurled himself out of bed and made for the shower, turning the water on to heat up. He imagined himself standing under the spray, washing her away.

But he knew it was a false memory that would never manifest. It wouldn’t be that easy.

It never was with her.

*

Arthur’s office was surrounded by well-wishers and placard wavers. Merlin wove through them to the door, meeting Leon inside. He was still wearing last night’s clothes, his hair at least twice the size it usually was, and shadows under both of his rather glazed eyes.

“Good night?” Merlin said.

“I—have no idea,” Leon said, hoarsely. He turned and sat, shakily, on the edge of his desk, just as Gwaine moaned and stirred under one of the blankets on the waiting room chairs.

“Morning,” Gwaine said. “Be with you in a jiffy, Merlin.” He tugged the blanket higher around himself and rested his head back against the arm of the chair.

“I can see I’ve assembled a crack team, here,” Merlin said.

With a sigh, he headed over to the coffee station and turned the machine on, letting his bag slide down his arm and resting it against the bin for milk cartons and empty sugar sachets.

“What?” Gwaine said. “If we were less diligent, when we realised it was 6am we’d have gone home rather than coming here.”

Leon clung to the desk. “I can see my emotions,” he said. “It’s like they’re not part of me anymore.”

Merlin handed him the first mug of coffee and poked the pile of blankets hanging off the chair with the toe of his shoe. “Get up, Gwaine.”

“I’m just resting my eyes.”

“Up,” Merlin said, with a more persuasive kick. “I want to show Arthur we’re all ready and raring to go.”

Gwaine swung upright. Unlike Leon, he wasn’t wearing last night’s clothes. He was wearing a bright pink t-shirt with a unicorn on the front.

Noticing Merlin looking, he tugged the shirt out from his chest to consider it himself. “Competitive dancing,” he said, “it was never my forte but I just can’t help myself.” He accepted the mug of coffee Merlin was holding out and took a big gulp. “How are we doing this, then?”

“Honestly your guess is as good as mine.”

“Manifesto,” Leon said. “We need a manifesto.” At Merlin’s look of surprise, he added, “My father was in Uther’s cabinet.”

“Right.” Merlin blew on his coffee.

“And badges. We need badges. Badges are key to the success of any campaign.”

“Is that true?”

“Cornerstone,” Gwaine said, draping himself over Leon’s shoulder. “Can’t have a political campaign without badges. I’ll work up some slogans. Pendragon for progress. Well-meaning Chronicle Readers for Magical Rights. No Arth measures, justice for all.” His brow crinkled. “Ok that one needs work, but you get the gist.”

Leon reached for a notebook. “Right. What else?”

They spent the next hour going through it—everything from posters to key messaging to PR strategy, from recruiting volunteers to financing to where they should host the donor dinner.

Despite his hangover, Leon was diligent and organised. Merlin had barely to mention that something might be useful before Leon was firing up a spreadsheet to keep track of it, a pencil caught between his teeth as he switched between making notes and furiously tapping away at his ancient machine.

Gwaine knew far more about strategy than anyone would’ve guessed resided under someone else’s unicorn t-shirt, and when he ducked out for some pastries, Leon let slip that Gwaine had disclosed between flaming Sambucas that his family were old money. They’d fallen out of favour, and Gwaine considered himself the black sheep, but Leon agreed with Merlin’s assessment that he could be trusted with far more than he gave himself credit for.

On the dot of nine, Arthur opened the door. He glanced between them with a look that said he was both surprised and pleased to see them there, gaze sweeping over the half dozen coffee mugs they’d collected between them and the flipchart covered in scribbles and flow charts that showed what they’d be doing between now and the end of the month.

“Right then,” Arthur said, reaching for the Danish Merlin had been saving. “Who’s going to brief me?”


	5. Exploit weakness in your opponent’s arguments.

_ Camelot Chronicle, 25 _ _ th _ _ January _

_After the sensational announcement of his candidacy last month, Arthur Pendragon hasn’t let the grass grow underneath him. Each day has brought new policy announcements, whether it be free meals for the children of working parents or a new raft of rights for magical asylum seekers, with a full manifesto promised next week._

_The announcements haven’t gone unnoticed, with the front pages yesterday dominated by Morgause’s comments calling Arthur a “fly in the ointment” and a “broken cog in the well-oiled machine of Camelot.”_

_Although the rhetoric may have appealed to Morgause’s voter base of Albion Mail readers, her comments had unexpected results with Pendragon supporters. Within hours, badges and banners appeared proclaiming Arthur was indeed the cog that would bring the whole machine to a halt, with supporters adopting the fly as some kind of symbol._

_Outside Arthur’s campaign headquarters, we spoke to several members of a Druid rights group—who’ve been camped there for more than a month now—to get their take._

_“Camelot is a machine these days. That’s the problem,” Griffin Potter, 38. “We’re all just cogs and we’re sick of it.”_

_“If she can say something like that about Arthur Pendragon,” Ethan Lane, 42, a lifelong Camelot resident, said, “what does that mean she thinks about the rest of us? As Druids, we see life as having intrinsic value, that each individual has the power to make a unique contribution to the greater good. We’re not moving parts, spinning just to serve her purposes.”_

_Leon Knight from the Pendragon campaign told us that Arthur preferred to focus on the issues rather than allegories and that they would not be issuing any further comment on what was a distraction from the dire situation many of Camelot’s residents find themselves in. His words came just before a survey released by the United Albionists showed that 67% of voters like Arthur’s refusal to engage in mud-slinging, while just 21% said they thought it made him seem weak._

_The Pendragon campaign faces its first big test this evening, when Arthur and his partner Gwen Smith will host a dinner to try and extract some large sums of cash from Camelot’s wealthiest residents._

_If that sounds like Arthur tapping into his old establishment connections, think again. Insiders tell me those would-be donors will be treated to a feast like no other, crafted from leftovers, and that they’ll be sharing the guest list with activists and community workers who’ll explain the campaign messaging better than a pamphlet would._

_With thinking like that driving the campaign, you’ve got to wonder whether Arthur was ever truly part of the Camelot machine._

_Gwaine Green is a columnist for the Camelot Chronicle._

Merlin knew less than nothing about flower arranging, so it struck him as peculiarly unfair that he’d just been handed an armful of long grasses and wild flowers and told to do the best he could with them. All around the venue, people were industriously placing buffet tables and draping them with tablecloths and he looked around for anything that looked remotely like a vase.

They’d chosen one of Camelot’s oldest public halls for the occasion. It boasted a high ceiling with a whale ribcage of rafters and candelabra that would bathe the entire place in soft lighting once they were lit, and every time Merlin stopped to take in the space, he started to worry that no-one would come and imagine how foolish he’d feel, sat on the stage with tray of canapés and a crate of wine.

Gwen span past, calling to one of the volunteers from the food bank who’d just arrived with what looked like a soup kettle and handed him an urn. “Centrepiece,” she said, as if that explained things. “Tony—Tony—the kitchen’s just through there.”

She scurried off with an apologetic grimace and Merlin juggled the urn—that was a lot heavier than Gwen had made it look—and the flowers over to the largest table. Setting the urn down, he surveyed the various flowers, picking the nicer looking ones and shoving them into it, then taking them out and deciding to start with the grasses. He arranged them so they looked a bit like a bushel and then scattered the flowers through the bunch, standing back to see how they looked.

“Like what you’ve done there,” Arthur said. “It’s very—” He tilted his head and considered it from a different angle. “—rustic?”

“It’s all part of the homemade charm aesthetic,” Merlin said, adding another long purple flower and then deciding to call it a day.

“Merlin,” Gaius called, “when you’ve quite finished with the floristry, I need to take you and Arthur through the donor list.”

He beckoned them into an ante-room behind a heavy door marked ‘staff only’. On the walls were mugshots from the society pages, arranged into clusters, and Gaius stood in front of them with pages of notes as if he were about to give them a lecture on the history of each.

“Now,” Gaius said, “it’s important that we focus on the correct individuals. I’ve broken them down into warm and cold prospects. Previous donors to the cause have also been identified, with target amounts noted.”

Merlin sighed, realising that a lecture was, in fact, precisely what Gaius intended to do.

“This list,” Gaius said, gesturing to one wall, “is people who have given sizeable donations before. They are primed to support the campaign—but they will expect to be treated as important. Personal attention will be required for each.”

Arthur thumbed his lip. “That’s Tobias Merchant and his wife—I know them already—and Camilla McKean—she owes me from a little matter I managed to sort out for her daughter. Who’s this?” he said, indicating an austere-looking fellow with more beard than face.

“That is Professor Charles Elliot. Eminent research fellow with a special interest in alchemy.”

“Good,” Merlin muttered. “What we need is a massive donation of lead and a promise it’ll turn into gold.”

Gaius glared at him and Arthur sighed. “And that’s Geoffrey of Monmouth, right?” he said. “Wouldn’t have thought we’d see him here.”

“Oh, on the contrary,” Gaius said, “he’s very keen to see what you have to say for yourself.”

Arthur murmured, checking each face against a mental list. “And these?”

Gaius turned to the next selection of grainy photos. “A little cooler but potentially persuadable. This is Gregory Malchett, the Earl—”

“—of Bountford,” Arthur finished. “I used to play rugby with his sons.”

“Ah good,” Gaius said, ignoring Merlin’s roll of his eyes.

“And that must mean you also likely know the offspring of his good friends the Earl and Countess of—”

Merlin zoned out while they went through the rest. It was unlikely he’d be called upon to speak to any of them and all memorising a bunch of titles was likely to do was make him resentful. Gaius had already explained that his role for the evening was largely to follow Arthur around, supplying policy and statistics where necessary so he could hit them with targeted information. They’d whittled everything down to a handful of key talking points which were both likely to come up and easy to steer conversations towards. _Poverty, Merlin, they like poverty. Thinking they can do something about it makes them feel less guilty for drinking expensive wine. Education, Merlin, teaching standards. Prospects, the long-term benefits of increasing the prospects of the next generation. You need to appeal not only to their sense of duty but self-interest: they need the next generation to pay a lot in taxes to fund their care in old age. Arts, Merlin, these people don’t just dabble in the arts, they live for being seen supporting them. Position Arthur as a patron of the arts and they’ll lap it up._

“And these are the potential donors who require the most work,” Gaius said, turning to the final wall. “I’ve briefed Gwen on all of them. She’ll warm them up through the early part of the evening—introduce them to some of the recipients of her good works—and then later perhaps you can do a sweep? Anything you want to go over again?”

“No,” Arthur said. “That was very thorough. Thank you, Gaius.”

*

An hour later, they’d all changed into evening wear, which Arthur wore considerably better than Merlin felt he did. He shifted inside his borrowed suit, trying not to think about the fact that the doors had officially opened five minutes ago and so far no-one had arrived.

“Smile, Merlin,” Gwaine said, through a fixed grin as he handed him a drink. “It’s a party, not an execution.”

“If we don’t raise enough donations it’ll be both.”

“Touché.”

Gwaine sipped from his beer, elbowing Merlin in the side as the first guests arrived. They headed straight for the drinks and then the buffet, eying Merlin’s centrepiece as if it were quite a novelty to see flowers in a more natural arrangement than primped and poked to within an inch of their life.

The hall started to fill over the next half hour. Merlin recognised several faces from the mugshots Gaius had shown them and watched who greeted who, how Gwen and Arthur worked as a seamless team, greeting the VIPs and activists alike together before splitting off to charm their respective targets. Gaius was also in full flow, adjusting his bow tie frequently as he did his rounds, referencing historical precedent and the long-standing culture of openness and inclusion Camelot had always enjoyed.

As Arthur’s conversations became longer, Merlin loitered within earshot, taking mental notes on what people were talking about, what their concerns were, so he could hone the messaging to appeal directly to them. Arthur introduced him to several people and every time he said the words _my campaign advisor Merlin_ , Merlin felt at once inadequate and tasked with pretending to be something he wasn’t. He shook hands and smiled, trotted out the key statistics he’d spent the last month working on, nodded sagely as people said things he didn’t agree with and brought things back to the key messaging. _Great point, Arthur and I were talking about that earlier and how we feel teaching is a bit like bee-keeping. Have we mentioned we have a ten-point and fully-costed plan for raising educational standards?_

Left to his own devices, he’d have found it difficult to move from one conversation to the next, but years of society parties meant Arthur was deft at it. A hand to the arm, a _lovely to see you, we’ll be sure to catch up later but do enjoy a canapé before they all disappear_ and he was away, as gracious as a gliding swan. It was a gift, the way he made each and every person feel as if they were briefly the most important person in the room before he took two steps to the left and said exactly the same things to other people. 

It was all going well until Arthur came to an abrupt halt on the way to greet one of Gaius’s most-key key donors.

“Oh—damn it all to hell,” Arthur said.

Merlin followed his gaze to the entrance.

Morgana lifted a cocktail in greeting, one half of her mouth tugging up into a smirk at the look on Arthur’s face.

Before Merlin could intervene, Arthur strode over. “What are you doing here?”

“That’s a fine way to treat a potential donor,” Morgana replied, selecting a canapé from a passing tray. “Gwen invited me. These look fabulous. Are they the day-old bread she was telling me about?”

“I’ve no idea,” Arthur said. “Who cares?”

“You won’t even indulge me in a little small talk?” Morgana said, eyes flicking to Merlin’s. “What terrible manners for an election candidate.”

“What do you want, Morgana?”

“I don’t want anything,” Morgana said. “I was invited, so I came. That’s how it works. And don’t say you won’t enjoy the coverage on the society pages.”

Arthur’s gaze slipped over Morgana’s shoulder, to where a couple of the hired photographers were eagerly snapping candids of the Pendragon siblings chatting. He fixed his face into one of his usually charming smiles, as if he was amused by something she’d just said.

Merlin hoped it looked moderately less like a grimace in print.

“Just—behave yourself.”

Arthur stalked off to talk to the art dealer, Sir Peregrine, who Gaius had told them in strictest confidence had deep pockets and a secret relationship with a Druid who’d been exiled. He would talk publicly about tax breaks and support them as much as possible, so long as the real reason for his support was kept hush-hush.

Merlin should follow, make sure Arthur had back-up, that he didn’t say anything that could be interpreted as insensitive, but one glance at Morgana rooted him to the spot.

“Charming,” Morgana said, finishing off the canapé and licking the crumbs off her fingers.

Merlin watched the pink flicker of her tongue, trying not to think of anything except the room they were standing in. The very packed room, where they were surrounded by potential donors and Camelot’s finest, not to mention Arthur and Gaius, either of whom would serve him up some choice words if they had any idea what had happened when they left the Rising Sun together.

“You look nice,” she said, leaning in to adjust Merlin’s bow tie. Her hand lingered on his chest, pressing against the front of the shirt Gwaine had lent him for the occasion before sweeping down and away.

“Thanks. You—er—you too.”

_Nice_ was far from the word for how she looked. Bright green silk clung to her throat and fell in a cascade over her body, and gold thread caught the candlelight, picking out an intricate pattern down a vent in the front which revealed her pale skin. Having had his lips on that very spot in the not too distant past didn’t make Merlin any more immune to it than he would otherwise have been, and he could feel at least a dozen sets of eyes behind him wondering what the hell she was doing talking to him.

“So—can we count on your support?” Merlin said, lifting his eyes to hers deliberately.

“I don’t think Arthur wants it, given his display.”

“That’s not true, he’s just—nervous.”

“Arthur? Nervous?” She lifted one eyebrow and laughed. “He wouldn’t know how to fake nerves, let alone actually feel them. In fact, I doubt he actually feels much of anything. Feelings are uncouth.”

They both watched as Arthur clapped Sir Peregrine on the arm. He was too far away for Merlin to tell what he was saying, but the expression said he’d just secured the promise of a sizeable donation. Merlin had heard of course that Arthur was good at this sort of thing, that when he was in the right mood, donation pledges rained down on him like confetti, that he had a way of convincing everyone he was personally in their corner even when he moved on and never gave them a second thought.

Seeing it in action, however, was a different thing entirely. Merlin had caught several donors staring wistfully at him as he retreated in a way that made it obvious their support wasn’t really about Arthur at all, but what he represented, what they believed in. There was a magic in it. There must be. Maybe Uther had had it too. Maybe that’s how Camelot came to be what it was in the first place, before Morgause turned everything on its head.

“Is Uther coming?” Merlin said.

He knew an invite had been sent, although Gaius thought it unlikely Uther would attend without notifying them of it so they could make all the necessary security arrangements. Popular as he was in some circles, Druids and other magical folk had long memories and hadn’t forgiven him for the harshness of his stance, even though Morgause had long surpassed him in curtailing their freedoms and meting out cruelty.

“He’s having dinner with an old friend,” Morgana said.

“What’s he think about all this?”

Morgana shrugged.

“You don’t talk much?”

“It’s not that,” she said, and handed her empty glass to a passing waiter. “Dance with me?”

The music had been chosen to be impeccably tasteful and encourage no more than a sedate waltz around the floor, but as Merlin settled his hand on Morgana’s waist, his heart raced as if he’d been doing a complicated tango for hours. He focused on where the material of her dress wrinkled underneath his fingers, ripples echoing out from where they were touching as if the whole thing was the surface of a green sea. Something to focus on was good, but there was no escaping her perfume. She always smelled like fire and spices, warm and dangerous and comforting all at once, and the way she moved against him made all of his skin tingle. She was sensory overload.

He wanted to bury his nose in her neck.

In fact, he wanted to do far more than that. He let himself indulge a momentary fancy about the ante-room, about locking the door and rucking up her dress, about trying to be quiet while the noises of the party continued on the other side of the door.

He settled for the brush of her knee against his leg as he guided her across the floor, for the warmth of the skin of her palm against his, and the way she smiled over his shoulder at people she knew without relinquishing her grip on his shoulder.

“You must’ve been busy, arranging all this,” she said.

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“I would believe. But your attention to detail has paid off. Everyone seems very impressed.” She glanced at him. “Who’d have thought. You and Arthur working together after all these years.”

“Believe me, I’m as surprised as anyone.”

Morgana eased a little closer. “I’m glad it’s working out,” she said.

Merlin took advantage of her proximity to close his eyes for just a second and imagine they were somewhere else, just the two of them. A field, maybe, under starlight, listening to soft music from a house miles away.

Because it was a fantasy, he let himself conjure candles that moved with them and hung on the air, pictured wrapping a shawl he’d just thought into being around her shoulders when she shivered, while she clicked her fingers to bring them a picnic. It wasn’t the sort of thing he’d ever actively thought of himself wanting—or not for a long time at least, not since he had his first taste of the bitterness heartbreak leaves in a person’s mouth.

He wondered what she’d think if she could see his thoughts, if she’d laugh at the naive simplicity of it or be drawn to something so far away from everything else her life had been. But he couldn’t predict her, had never been able to. Merlin was struck by how it was possible to have intimacy and yet at the same time, not know someone at all, how achieving one didn’t gift the other.

At his elbow, someone cleared their throat.

He was tall and annoyingly good looking, in that bland sort of way like an expensive kitchen appliance, exactly the sort of man Morgana would meet for lunch at Milk and Honey and flirt with over a menu of over-priced salads.

“Allow me to cut in?” he said.

Merlin demurred with a nod, meeting Morgana’s eye as he raised her hand to his lips to kiss.

“Don’t forget to plant your invite,” he said.

*

Merlin did another couple of rounds of the guests, nodding along with their opinions while keeping one eye on Morgana. She knew plenty of the attendees, moved between them oozing smiles and charm. It seemed to come entirely naturally to her. Everything would be so much easier if she was on the team too. One Pendragon might be a problem for the incumbent administration but two would be unbeatable, and he couldn’t deny that seeing Morgana every day in his cramped office would hold its own appeal.

“Tongue in, Merlin,” Arthur said, from somewhere behind Merlin’s shoulder. “That’s a rented suit.”

“Shut up,” Merlin muttered.

He thought Arthur would take himself back to work but instead, he leant against the buffet table Merlin was also resting against, ferreting around until he found a bowl of peanuts that had gone largely untouched.

Arthur took one and offered them over. Knocking back a small handful, Merlin realised how they’d made it through so much of the evening relatively unscathed. “Chilli,” he coughed. “Quite a lot of chilli.”

“Indeed,” Arthur said, blinking the tears out of his eyes.

They both watched the party for a moment. The band Gwen had organised were made up of musicians and bards who’d sought refuge in Camelot and found solace in coming together to play folk tunes from each other’s homelands. They were currently playing a lament that leant itself to slow dancing, and plenty of the older couples were taking full advantage.

“How do you think we’re doing?” Merlin said. “Numbers-wise, I mean.”

“I would categorise it as somewhere between _well_ and _very well_.”

“Gaius will be pleased, then.”

“Tough job will be turning all of this support into something,” Arthur said.

Merlin murmured agreement. It was what kept him up most nights, that what if all the posters and placards and protests about Morgause didn’t actually mean anything, what if people lied to the opinion pollsters or thought about it too much and realised they were too scared of anything that wasn’t the status quo.

Across the hall, Gwen was dancing with an elderly woman Merlin recognised from the wall. Gaius had herded her into the least important grouping but Gwen had identified her as a passionate campaigner for rights for miners and therefore a potentially useful ally, even if she had barely a penny to her name. Gwen was good at that, at seeing people for their goodness and their inner worth rather than the contents of their wallets. There was every chance she’d be a better candidate than Arthur, if she had a tenth of his money and more influential friends.

“Gwen’s great,” Merlin said.

“I _have_ noticed.”

Merlin sniffed a laugh and folded his arms. “How serious are things with you two, anyway?”

“I’m not sure that’s any of your business.”

Merlin met his eye. “If you’re about to break up or start seeing other people,” Merlin said, “that would be my business. Any kind of scandal could harm the campaign, we’re at a very delicate stage.”

Arthur straightened his back. “There is no need to worry on that score,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been—” He looked around, lowering his voice and letting it out of only the corner of his mouth. “—thinking about shopping for a ring.”

“Arthur, that’s fantastic.”

For just a second they grinned at each other before Arthur’s gaze drifted across the room to where Gwen was now dancing with the head of one of the oldest families in Camelot and, by the looks of things, absolutely charming him. Gwaine had always been right about it: Arthur had the old-school connections but Gwen made him so much more likeable. So much more human. He pressed his lips together, thinking of the extra press they could generate with an engagement announcement, the way the wedding photos could be shot to establish Arthur as mature and grounded and above all _happy_.

“You think she’d say yes?” Arthur said.

“Of course she will.”

“You don’t think it’s too soon?”

Merlin realised he had no idea how long they’d been together. “Not at all,” he said.

“Or a bad time? It feels like a bad time—there’s a lot going on.”

“Is there ever going to be a time you’re not both busy, though?” Merlin said. “If you love each other and want to do it, why wait?”

“That’s a good point,” Arthur said. “But right now I’m too busy even to find a ring.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Merlin said. “I’ll do it.”

“What do you know about buying engagement rings?”

“I’m a man of impeccable taste. Did you not see what I did to the flowers?”

Rather unexpectedly, Arthur murmured agreement, so Merlin decided to press home the advantage. “I’ll investigate the options. You don’t want to be traipsing around Camelot, peering into jeweller’s windows.”

“I don’t?”

Merlin tutted. “What if someone sees? Tells the press? It’ll ruin the surprise.”

Arthur frowned. “I don’t think anyone’s interested in me at a jeweller’s, Merlin.”

“Is that a risk you want to take? With one of the biggest, most special moments of your life? Of Gwen’s life?”

The creases on Arthur’s forehead deepened. “Suppose you’re right.”

“I’ll get started straight away,” Merlin said. “Something simple, yes? Gwen wouldn’t want anything too showy.”

“Not too un-showy either, though,” Arthur said. “It needs to convey the correct status.”

“Got it.” Merlin juggled the words status and showy around in his head until both were meaningless and bumped elbows with Arthur. “Go and dance with her, then. Your almost-fiancé.”

As Arthur departed, trying to hide his smile, Merlin sidled over to Gwaine, who was helping himself to a pint of punch. He leant in, keeping his eyes on where Arthur and Gwen were dancing, looking to all intents and purposes completely wrapped up in each other. “We need a friendly magazine,” he said. “One of the big glossy ones.”

“Why?” Gwaine said, spearing a chunk of pineapple out of the bowl with a straw. “What for?”

With a nod towards Gwen and Arthur, Merlin whispered, “Engagement spread.”

Gwaine’s pineapple halted halfway to his mouth. “You serious?”

“Rings are being selected as we speak.”

“I’ll get on it first thing,” Gwaine said, dragging the pineapple chunk off the straw with his teeth. “People’ll snatch my hand off. They’ll pay a good amount of money for an exclusive like that.”

“Good, donate it all to charity. Maybe the food bank Gwen works at.”

Gwaine raised an eyebrow. 

“It’ll be a good way to get the manifesto promises into a broader range of coverage than just the news sources, right?” 

Gwaine gave Merlin a broad grin. “You’re slyer than you look, aren’t you?” he said.

In reply, Merlin slid the bowl of chill nuts towards him. “Try some of these.”


	6. Do your research. Knowing a topic from all angles makes it harder for an opponent to surprise you.

The cupboard Leon had cleared was barely big enough for a desk and two chairs, but Merlin and Gwaine crammed into it anyway. Gwaine spread the day’s newspapers over the desk—including the Albion Mail and the Camelot Telegraph, which he normally hissed at the sight of—shedding pastry flakes from one the selection of breakfast Danishes someone had sent to the office as a thank you for last night.

Merlin edged around the door with two coffees and set them down between the clippings. There were more of them than he imagined there would be. Photos of Arthur and Gwen dancing dallied alongside black and white renderings of Camelot’s wealthiest in conversation with each other, and the ones from the society pages had neat captions detailing who everyone was and which designer they were wearing.

And of course there were plenty of Morgana. The photographers in attendance had pounced on that opportunity as soon as she arrived and there wasn’t an editor across the realm that hadn’t decided to run them by the looks of it. 

Merlin set his coffee down and picked up one of her smiling over his shoulder, pretending to read the accompanying text. It was a nice shot. He tingled with the memory of her body against his, the swirl of her perfume as they turned on the dance floor, the false remembrance of sneaking off somewhere and whispering to her skin all the things he wanted to do other than dance.

“Not bad,” Gwaine said. “Front page of the Camelot Chronicle and the Mercia Herald. Nice column in the Darkling Woods society page which actually mentions a couple of policy items Arthur was overheard discussing. Phone’s been ringing off the hook with interview requests. Your boy did well.”

Merlin swallowed a mouthful of coffee and tucked the picture of himself and Morgana into his pocket. “I’d hardly call him mine.”

“Well who else’s is he? He’s only doing this because of you. All of us are.”

Merlin let out a long breath. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Not that he had a choice anymore, not really. Whatever he’d set in motion now had momentum completely outside of him and all he could do was try and keep up with it. “It’s a good start?” he said.

“Champion, but we can’t let up. That little story you promised me last night—” Gwaine looked pointedly towards Arthur’s closed office door, where he and Gwen were laughing over a late breakfast.

“Make the calls, get everything in place. Be discreet.”

Gwaine nodded and reached for another pastry. “If I’d known the food would be this good, I’d have gone into politics ages ago.”

*

Gwaine spent most of the day on the phone having conversations that seemed to ramble through greetings and anecdotes but eventually led to him giving his contacts just enough information to have him hanging up with a grin and declaring, “Palm of my hand.”

For his part, Merlin called the most expensive jewellers in Camelot, then went over proofs of the manifesto and other campaign materials that Leon had finally managed to get the ancient printer to spew out, making notes in the margins and double-checking all the facts and figures. They constituted years of work—years of conversations through the bars of a prison with Druids who’d been thrown in there for practicing their healing and standing in alleys with people who called them home, years of badgering people on street corners to take a poll or calling United Albionist members to take their opinion on something.

The longer he stared at it, the more convinced he was it didn’t go far enough—or maybe it went too far—and with a sigh he pushed it away, rubbing at his eyes. He’d spent half his life having academic discussions with Gaius about magical rights but seeing their thoughts, their plan, laid out in black and white was a peculiar feeling. It all felt too small, somehow, as if the oppression and fear he’d always lived with couldn’t possibly be overturned by a handful of sentences, even though that was how it had essentially been created in the first place. 

“Ready to call it a day?” Gwaine said.

Merlin murmured agreement, checking his watch. “Shit—I need to go.”

“Date?”

“Something like that,” Merlin said, and grabbed his things.

*

The jeweller was a fifteen-minute jog away. Merlin slowed as he rounded the corner, stopping in front of the window of a boutique to sort his hair out and straighten his clothes so he looked like the kind of person who could afford to shop on a road like this, even though he absolutely wasn’t. By the time he reached the door, he was almost not out of breath, and peered in through the safety grills that covered both the door and the display windows. To one side was a buzzer, so he pressed that, and after a second a slightly fearful voice said, “Yes?”

“It’s Merlin. I’ve got an appointment to look at engagement rings.”

“Ah, yes.”

The door buzzed and opened a crack, and Merlin edged inside, catching his bag on the lock mechanism. The hallway was dimly lit, but at the end, light emitted from a much more opulent looking room. Merlin opened that door to be met by an elderly gentleman in a full three-piece suit.

“Good evening, sir,” he said. “Would you care for some refreshment? Tea, coffee, or we have a very fine selection of wine, as it’s a special occasion?”

Merlin wasn’t expecting a butler. He accepted a cup of tea, almost regretting his choice when an elaborate tray of silverware with a pot and real china cups and a dish of actual sugar cubes appeared. He was ushered into a low velvet seat and someone else appeared to pour his tea for him and hover with a pair of tongs specifically for the sugar cubes.

“As we discussed earlier,” the man said, “we’ve selected a number of pieces which meet the specification.” 

Merlin nodded as if this were the kind of thing he did all the time, as if he were accustomed to this kind of attention rather than being followed around the grocer’s like he was about to filch a pear. He managed to keep a relatively neutral face as a selection of rings on individual velvet cushions were brought out from the back room and placed in front of him, the man stepping back to give him time to consider them. They all looked, broadly speaking, the same: diamonds set into gold, some shallowly and some with ornate work around the stones. Some diamonds were bigger than others, but other than that Merlin wasn’t sure quite how he was supposed to choose between them.

He inched his fingers towards the closest one and, when no alarms went off, lifted it off the cushion.

“That would be lovely choice, sir,” the man said. “Princess cut, a carat and a quarter—it gives a very elegant, timeless look on the finger.”

Merlin nodded, turning the ring back and forth so it caught the light. A woman appeared from behind him, startling him slightly. She took the ring from him and slipped it onto her finger, displaying it for him. Her hands were long and thin and he suspected they’d never carted potatoes into a soup kitchen like Gwen’s had, but he had to admit the ring _did_ give a timeless look.

“Yeah, that’s—very nice,” Merlin said. He couldn’t help feeling it was a little ordinary, though, that it lacked Arthur’s key note about status. More importantly, no-one reading an engagement spread would get particularly excited about it. He reached for one of the others—larger and shaped like a teardrop. “Can we try this?”

“Ah, this is a very special ring,” the man said. “Two carats in total. The pear-shaped centre stone gathers and then redistributes light through the brilliant cut stones around it—we call it the halo, since it delivers unparalleled and absolutely striking brilliance.” At Merlin’s impressed nod, he smiled and leant in. “This is a design that goes back hundreds of years. It’s said to represent tears of joy.”

With a smile, the woman slipped the previous offering from her finger and slid the pear shaped one onto her ring finger. It caught the light far better than the other one. There was a magnetic quality to the sparkle of it.

Merlin’s head flashed with an image of Morgana in front of a fireplace wearing a ring like this, but just as soon as it appeared, it melted again. She wasn’t diamonds. She was blood-red rubies and deep forest green emeralds and maybe pearls worn with absolutely nothing else.

“I think this is the one,” Merlin said, and dug into his pocket for Arthur’s credit card. “Can I get a box for it as well?”

*

“Hey,” Merlin said. He tossed the ring box over the desk towards Arthur, sniggering when he fumbled and almost dropped it.

“Merlin, you can’t just—” Arthur righted the box and stared at it. The expression he adopted was a complex mix of surprise and dread, both of which were quickly swept away to the mask of duty and respectability he’d occasionally worn at university when giving a speech to the rugby team on the eve of an important match. “Right.”

“Well open it,” Merlin said. “If—for some reason—she doesn’t like it, you can return it and swap it for something else until the end of the week. That said, this _is_ the best ring in Camelot.”

Arthur considered the box. In his hands, the red velvet looked very different to how it had in Merlin’s. It looked like it belonged to him. He flipped the top up. It opened with a deeply pleasing soft click and the lid held fast, displaying the ring in its own little red velvet nest. The light in Arthur’s office was functional rather than romantic, but still, the ring looked mesmerising.

“Wow,” Arthur said. He blinked a couple of times in quick succession. “How much did this cost?”

“You can afford it. I’ve booked Gwen’s favourite restaurant. She’ll meet you there at eight, which gives you just enough time to go home and change into something more suitable.”

Arthur looked down at his meticulously chosen mid-priced suit. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“She wants to be proposed to by Arthur the man, not Arthur the lawyer. Wear that navy jumper she got you.”

Arthur nodded, and for a moment he just sat there with a rather dazed expression. It struck Merlin how weird it was for Arthur to take him seriously, but he supposed they weren’t kids arguing over whether or not Merlin could make him eleven pints of cider and lime in under a minute anymore.

Arthur snapped the box closed and got to his feet. “Wish me luck, then,” he said, and as he passed to get his coat, Merlin clapped him on the shoulder.

He waited until Arthur had passed the window before grabbing the phone and dialling his own number. Gwaine answered with a muffled hello that implied he was halfway through his dinner.

“Can you arrange a photographer?” Merlin said.

“Sure. Where?”

Merlin reeled off the address. “They’re meeting at eight so let’s give them half an hour before anyone starts sticking a lens up to the glass. And make a note of this. It’s Gwen’s favourite restaurant and Arthur booked it specifically because they went there on their second date, so Gwen could show him his snobbery about only eating at places with a string of awards was unwarranted. The engagement ring is two carats. Pear-shaped, surrounded by a halo of brilliant cut stones—”

“Hang on,” Gwaine said. “Say that again?”

“Two carats. Shaped like a pear. With a halo of brilliant cut stones.” Merlin tried to remember the exact wording the jeweller had used. “They give it unparalleled brilliance. It’s a traditional design—dates back hundreds of years—and represents tears of joy. That’s very important, the tears of joy bit. It sounds romantic, right?” Gwaine murmured agreement. “Is that enough for you to work with?”

“More than,” Gwaine said. “Blanket coverage tomorrow.” There was a pause and then he said, “do we have a plan in case she says no? Or the photographer gets a picture of one of them storming out?”

“Eligible bachelor Arthur Pendragon back on the market?” Merlin offered, and when Gwaine laughed he tutted. “Well I don’t know. You’re the expert.”

“Leave it with me. You coming home now? I’ve saved you some noodles.”


	7. Employ ethos (arguments of authority). Draw on people’s hopes and fears and connect with them using personal stories.

_ Camelot Chronicle, March 4th _

_While the gossip pages are in a frenzy over every single detail of the impending Pendragon nuptials—will Morgana Pendragon be bridesmaid and which of Arthur’s illustrious pals will be granted the honour of organising his stag do—the couple themselves have been busy trying to get the campaign messaging out to the masses._

_For the last month, they’ve embarked on an ambitious programme of town hall meetings, with Arthur focussing on hitting every district of Camelot itself while Gwen headed out to the outer regions, pounding the pavements of the Mercia border and speaking with activist groups from Cenred’s kingdom in a bid to foster strong relationships with the people of the kingdom rather than the man himself._

_It’s a stark contrast to Morgause’s campaign strategy, which has consisted so far of a string of attack pieces in The Camelot Telegraph and the Albion Mail, calling Arthur young and naive. Sources inside her campaign told us off the record that every inch of Arthur’s past is being scoured for useful dirt, but so far, the best they’ve been able to drum up are a few tales of youthful exuberance involving drinking unsavoury cocktails for a bet._

_In an attempt to bring the election back to the issues, the Pendragon campaign is eagerly pushing for a live debate next month. Insiders tell me Arthur is champing at the bit for it, believing years of court experience will give him an edge and a chance to show voters what he’s made of. “Arthur is a practiced and eloquent public speaker,” one campaign worked told me, “his passion for—and knowledge of—the issues is clear to anyone who hears him. And Morgause knows that. That’s why she’s running scared.”_

_If a live debate goes ahead, Arthur will need to keep his wits about him. Morgause has a reputation as a fierce opponent who’s not above ad hominum attacks. Previous contenders accused her of mind manipulation and fogging their thoughts, accusations which she strenuously denied, saying instead that the momentous nature of the occasion went to their heads and proved they weren’t up to the rigours of leadership._

_Arthur Pendragon should be well placed to withstand any verbal assaults, having honed his craft in some of the most hotly contested legal battles of recent times. But convincing a judge or jury and the general public are very different things, and some from within the United Albionists have raised concerns about whether he can really speak to the people on terms they’ll understand._

_His fiancé Gwen might be able to help him there, coming as she does from much humbler beginnings and receiving standing ovations at a recent event in the United Albionist stronghold of Balor after promising increased worker protections and reviews of the contentious Magical Containment Act._

_As the campaign continues, Arthur Pendragon needs to use all the charm at his disposal to make sure the people of Camelot say, ‘I do’ on the ballot paper._

_Gwaine Green is a columnist for the Camelot Chronicle._

The walls of the inside of Merlin’s office were littered with pictures of Gwen and Arthur smiling. They ranged from the front covers of magazines to the high society pages to the paper homeless people sold on street corners. Gwaine had outdone himself with coverage, and Gwen had talked herself hoarse with interviews about both their plans for a small, intimate wedding for friends and family and Arthur’s plans for Camelot. Arthur had also given interviews, although they were a little drier and more focused on policy. He photographed well though and Gwaine had gleefully informed Merlin he’d snuck onto at least two lists of guilty-pleasure crushes.

Gwaine pinned the latest clipping to the wall.

_GWEN EXCLUSIVE: “Our future and Camelot’s future sometimes seem like the same thing.”_

“Grand,” Gwaine said, into the phone receiver pinned to his shoulder with his ear. “I’ll get that set up quicker than you can say damn he’s efficient as well as good-looking.”

He dropped the receiver back onto the cradle and stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the photos of Gwen and Arthur on a bench in the park on ‘a rare moment off’.

“Who was that?”

“Some eejit from the Mail,” Gwaine said.

“Another interview request?”

“Ten minutes tops,” Gwaine said. “I’ll squeeze it into lunchtime.”

“Everyone wants to hear from Arthur.”

“That they do. One thing to mention, though,” Gwaine said, with a wince. “It’s not a problem as such—”

“What?”

“People are starting to talk,” Gwaine said, “about Uther’s silence. Especially after he no-showed at the donor party. No pictures of him and the happy couple, it’s—it’s not a thing yet, but it could become a thing.”

“They can’t think he’s supporting Morgause?”

Gwaine shrugged. “Unless he says otherwise they can, and Morgause can spin it.”

Merlin sighed.

The latest polls had seen a slight stemming of loses for Morgause’s overall approval rating, even though other numbers had Arthur ahead on actual individual policies. Her supporters in the press had carefully seeded doubts about Arthur’s maturity and readiness for leadership, trying to paint him as a naive idealist. It was nothing they couldn’t withstand for a week or so but if people started to write articles about how Uther thought that too, it would be a different story. He could see it now: _Pendragon Snr thinks Arthur Pendragon isn’t ready, won’t back him._ All it took was one source inside the Pendragon household speaking out for a suitably incentivising sum about an off-hand comment at dinner.

“I’ll get on it,” Merlin said. “Leave it with me.”

In the main office, Leon had just returned from the printers with a new raft of campaign collateral to replenish what they’d used up in the outer regions. With some effort, he heaved a box of pamphlets onto the desk, causing the stack of A4 posters there to flutter and a bag of badges slide to the floor. “Oh bother,” he said.

Merlin ducked to pick the badges up. Through the plastic bag, Arthur’s face stared out with a dignified not quite smile. The rest had a mixture of slogans on, from Pendragon for Magical Rights to Camelot For All to the boldest colour way on VOTE PENDRAGON.

“Gwen’s brother and some of his friends are coming over to help,” Leon said, dragging another box of posters across the floor with his foot.

“Did we set up the interview yet? For his radio show?”

“I believe so. We’re just waiting on you to agree some music for Arthur to talk about.”

Merlin clapped his hand to his forehead. “Yeah, sorry. I’ll get Gwaine to revise the list.”

Gwaine’s first go had been a little heavy on folk music— _It’s the music of the people, Merlin!_ —while Arthur favoured light classics that would make him seem out of touch with all but the upper echelons of Camelot society, who would judge his taste as populist and banal. When he first approached Arthur about taking the candidacy, little did Merlin suspect the level of analysis every detail would need, that Arthur couldn’t just go on the radio and say, ‘I like this song’, every option had to be explored and dissected. He hadn’t slept more than three hours in a row in weeks.

Merlin surveyed the contents of the boxes. “And this is enough to cover the entire city house-to-house?”

“Uh huh. Satellite offices should be confirming receipt of theirs this afternoon.”

Merlin picked up one of the pamphlets and unfolded it. On one side was the simple VOTE PENDRAGON message in a chunky handwriting font, designed to look homemade and yet be readable if people put it in a window on an upper storey, and on the other was a picture of Arthur laughing with his arm around Gwen in front of a food bank. He skimmed the text, praying he wouldn’t see a typo he hadn’t caught in his dozen previous reads of it.

The tone had taken him a while to get right. Serious but approachable. Enough facts to give anyone who needed them a reason to swing their way but not so many as to appear to be trying too hard to convince people.

Leon unfurled one too, grinning as he taped it up in the window. “Looks good,” he said.

Merlin nodded, and while Leon was distracted unpacking and checking all the boxes, dragged the phone off the desk and around the corner for some semblance of privacy. He dug the number out of his pocket and rested the scrap of paper against the coffee cupboard, dialling the numbers with his heart pounding.

The voice that answered was clipped and unfamiliar. Merlin should’ve known it’d be a housekeeper or other member of staff. He asked for Morgana, gave his name, and rested his head against the wall as the line went quiet.

This was a bad idea.

The whole thing was a bad idea. 

“Hello?”

“Hi,” Merlin said.

“Merlin, what a lovely surprise.”

Her tone was light, with a politeness to it that said whoever had handed the phone over was still listening. Merlin rolled his skull against the wall to ground himself, to try and focus on the real reason for his call. This wasn’t social. He wasn’t a suitor trying to get a date.

“Campaign keeping you busy?” Morgana said, when he didn’t say anything.

“Yeah. All go here.”

“So I hear, Gwen hasn’t been to see me for ages and I hold you entirely responsible. She has a whole wedding to plan and you’ve got her off who knows where, preaching to the converted.”

Merlin pressed his lips together as Gwaine came by, digging around on Leon’s desk for one of the new badges. Merlin turned into the wall. “Are you free for lunch?” he said.

“Today?”

“Sure—you could—come over and see it all in action, maybe.”

“I already have a reservation at Milk and Honey,” she said. “But you’d be more than welcome to join me.”

Merlin swallowed. Morgana asking him to go there meant they’d definitely be seen; he’d seen enough pictures of her at lunch to know that. It was as if there were a photographer permanently camped out in the hedges around the terrace. He’d wanted her to come here, to see the industry and excitement of the campaign office, conjuring idle thoughts about getting them both coffee as they stayed late and stuffed envelopes or sorted pamphlets into postcode bundles to be dropped later.

This was different.

Very different. But if it got him what he needed?

“Ok,” he said.

*

The restaurant terrace was just as intimidating as Merlin remembered, the security guards standing on either side of the door eying him with suspicion as soon as he crossed the hedge line.

“I’m meeting Morgana Pendragon,” he said, and—as always—the mere mention of the Pendragon name changed the atmosphere from frosty to deferential. They both nodded and a maître-de appeared and showed him to a table Merlin recognised from dozens of pictures over the years. He accepted a menu and a dish of olives and asked for a jug of water.

He went over what it was he wanted to say, the way he’d slip a casual mention of what Uther’s support would mean for the campaign in between small talk, but even in his head it sounded crass. He flipped through the menu for something to do, trying not to make a face at the prices or squint too hard at the descriptions of the dishes, which made familiar food items seem barely edible. He was just wondering what on earth salsify was when a shadow hit the table.

“Punctual,” Morgana said.

Merlin rose, and kissed her on the cheek when she leant in. Kiss-greeting was one of those things he wasn’t sure he’d ever entirely gotten the hang of, never sure if his lips were supposed to make actual contact with the proffered cheek or not, but it was too late to overthink it now.

“I didn’t realise eating foam was a thing,” he said as he sat back down again, eyes raking over Morgana’s dark red dress and the slope of her exposed shoulders.

“I wouldn’t say you eat it so much,” Morgana said, removing her dark glasses, “as let it dissolve in your mouth and pretend it’s added something to the experience.”

“And to the price tag.”

“Celery doesn’t foam itself, Merlin,” she said, smiling when Merlin laughed.

Her presence summoned not one but three waiters, one of whom was immediately tasked with bringing them a bottle of her favourite wine while the others waited to take her shawl and her order.

“I’ll have my usual,” she said, without looking at either of them or indeed the menu.

Merlin ordered an omelette, which was pretty much the only thing he felt confident about pronouncing.

The wine arrived first and Merlin helped himself to an olive as the waiter poured them two large glasses before depositing the bottle in its own private ice caddy. At other tables, business was being discussed and a couple of heads turned towards them as they caught sight of Morgana.

“I brought you a present,” Merlin said.

“A present?”

Merlin dug the badges he’d grabbed off Leon’s desk on his way out from his pocket. He held them out in his closed fist until Morgana offered her palm, then dropped them into her hand. Arthur stared up at them.

“That one is a definitive no,” she said.

“Goes with your outfit.”

“His face does not go with anybody’s outfit,” she said, but she took them anyway, gaze fixing on the magical rights one. “It’s a bold position.”

“Not really,” Merlin said. “Polls show 77% of people support a relaxation of the rules.”

Morgana ran a finger over the face of the badge. “They support healers and spells to heat their houses,” she said. “Most of the residents of Camelot would still burn a neighbour at the stake if they knew they had real power.”

“That’s only because magical power has become associated with evil, with malicious intent and nefarious purposes because all the magnanimous magical powerhouses are in prison.”

Morgana considered his point with a quirk of her eyebrow.

“There are posters as well,” Merlin said. “I’ll make sure you’re on the drop route, put a couple up in the windows of the Pendragon mansion. Maybe it’ll secure us a few extra votes. From passers-by, I mean.”

Morgana leant back in her chair, cradling her wineglass. “You don’t think I’ll vote for Arthur?”

“Honestly?” Merlin said.

“Why not.”

Merlin stared at his wineglass in thought. “I’ve no idea, to be honest. Every time we talk about something like magical rights—” Merlin scrubbed a hand through his hair, disrupting the order he’d spent a good minute trying to impose on it before he left the office and rendering it into disarray. “—it’s like—I don’t know. Like we’re skirting the truth.” He sighed, mentally tallying the weight of all the conversations they’d had on the matter. “You must feel it too.”

Morgana’s face was impassive, but he thought he saw her grip on her wineglass tighten.

“Not that that’s anyone’s fault,” he said quickly. “I know there are things it wouldn’t be prudent to say, sometimes, in public at least.”

“Or private.”

“Of course. But magical rights aren’t the controversial topic they were ten years ago,” Merlin said.

“Maybe not,” she said, “in some places. But there’s a difference between what people will say when they’re asked in an opinion poll and what they’ll actually put a tick against when they’re alone with the names on the form and no one to judge them.”

Merlin rested his head on his hand. “I’d think in that case, it’d mean more people voting to support magical rights than would confess it.”

Morgana swirled her wine in her glass. “We’ll see, I suppose.”

The waiter arrived, setting Morgana’s salad down in front of her before pivoting and placing Merlin’s omelette on the table. Merlin thanked him and poured them both more wine, assessing the range of cutlery on the table and wondering which one was the omelette fork or if he was about to commit the kind of faux pas that meant he should never have accepted an invite to this kind of place. He picked one up and tore a bit of omelette off with it, shoving it into his mouth so no one would see it was the incorrect implement for the job.

“I don’t think I ever thanked you,” Morgana said.

“For what?”

“For the debate.”

Merlin thought they had a tacit agreement never to speak about that again.

She’d come to him in tears, explained that no one would face her in a debate because of all the rumours. She wouldn’t be allowed to graduate without it and Uther would be furious with her for it. Everyone was scared of her; he’d seen it for himself, how even Arthur would shrink away from her when she was agitated and ordinary students scurried when they passed her in the halls.

_I’ll do it._

It was folly on several levels, given that he wasn’t actually a student at the university and the only things he knew about debating he’d picked up sneaking into the back of the hall, but the words had escaped from his mouth nevertheless, followed by others about how good he was at disguises and how he’d ask Gaius for the name of someone on the course whose family was so rich they never bothered to actually attend.

“Oh,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “for what happened after. I didn’t think Uther would have you fired.”

Merlin shrugged. “It’s not like working in a bar was my dream.”

“Still. Can’t have made it easy to find other things.”

Merlin stared at the table.

The menu stood on its own little stand. He wondered what it was like to eat in places like this all the time rather than the pubs Merlin frequented where the offerings were scrawled on a chalkboard and rubbed out when they sold out. It was a different life, living in places where there was enough certainty about the availability of food that they printed the dishes out.

“I had Gaius,” he said. “I’ve done ok.”

By most measures, he had. Unlike some of his Druid friends, he’d not been captured by Morgause’s spies and conscripted, had his magic drained by menial, repetitive tasks, been kept on basic rations and punished for failing productivity levels due to lack of food with even less food. He might not be living a life of luxury and comfort, but things could very much be worse.

“Yes, I suppose you did. Did you get your invite to the wedding yet?” she said, spearing a leaf from her plate. “I helped Gwen pick them out. The card was exquisite, don’t you think?”

They weren’t going to talk about it, then. What actually happened at the debate.

Magical rights.

Morgana for, Merlin against.

He’d stood in the debating chamber in a ridiculous disguise, Morgana’s classmates and lecturer bearing down on him. He planned to make a token effort, to let her have an easy win, but when it came to it, when he saw Arthur leaning against the wall watching, when he laughed at the first of Merlin’s feeble arguments, something else took over. He argued against his own people, against her, spitting fury he didn’t feel, tearing every argument she had apart with borrowed rhetoric. He stole cautionary tales from Gaius, statistics from newspaper reports on the dangers of magical folk that made him feel hunted and filled him with indigent rage, polemic from the posters that cowed his childhood and haunted his dreams.

He can’t even really remember why, only the look on her face when the votes were declared in his favour. Her eyes blazed golden. He couldn’t tell what kind of spell was coming, only that it was a powerful one. And instinctively he blocked it. A wall of force, one spells that were really nothing but pent up emotion would bounce off. And bounce it did, hard enough to bring part of the roof down.

They’d locked eyes through the dust cloud, through the screaming, and he couldn’t tell what the fear in her eyes was: fear of herself or him.

In the commotion that followed, Arthur bundled Merlin out, throwing him against a wall, dislodging his wig. A brief moment of surprise was followed by Arthur yelling at him to fetch Gaius and shoving him off down the hall while he plunged back into the dust cloud to assess the damage and help the wounded.

The official story was structural issues: the old building finally succumbing to age. There were mutterings about maintenance contracts that had gone to cronies rather than competent professionals, although some press stories at the time used words like ‘mysterious’ and ‘unaccounted for’. Merlin still didn’t know how much Arthur really knew, how much denial was layered over his memory of events.

“How’s Gaius?” Morgana said, spearing a cherry tomato. “I miss him.”

“Call in at his office. He’d love to see you.”

She smiled and he knew she wouldn’t, even though sometimes he’d come back to find her there, sitting on the arm of one of the wingbacks, sharing a chuckle with Gaius. He never asked what they talked about, although he had his suspicions given some of the books that would appear on Gaius’s desk in the days following one of Morgana’s visits.

“Or you could come by Arthur’s,” Merlin said. “Lend your support. Help out.”

“You want a picture of me stuffing envelopes, Merlin?”

“There’s plenty to do that’s not stationary related—you could help with strategy? Or Gwen, she always needs help marshalling the volunteers.”

“She’s a saint—what she sees in Arthur is anyone’s guess.”

“That he’s spectacularly good-looking and earnestly tries to do the right thing?” Merlin offered.

Morgana reached for her wine glass. “I’ll take your word for that.”

Merlin finished the last of his omelette, dabbing the corner of his mouth with a napkin that was made from better material than his shirt. “I’m serious,” he said. “We’d love to have you drop by.”

“I already wrote a very generous cheque.”

“And Arthur appreciated that, but—”

“I didn’t do it for Arthur.”

Their gazes caught, and something flickered between them. The same thing which had flickered on the fire escape outside Merlin’s flat the night she came to the Rising Sun, the rain bearing down and caution whisked away on the wind. In thinking of it, he could smell the soaked concrete and feel the warmth of her mouth on his, the desperation in her fingers as she pulled him to her. He’s not sure how long they kissed there, only that at some point she broke away and muttered against his ear, _open the damn door, Merlin_.

Morgana broke their gaze, looking over his shoulder.

“Hope you were smiling,” she said, with a subtle nod over the low hedge that ran around the terrace, where a guy was not so discreetly checking his camera. “I can do without another snarky think piece about my choice of lovers.”

“Is that what I am?”

The question seemed to take her by surprise. She frowned, but quickly shook it off, leaning in across the table. “Why don’t we go back to mine?” she said.

“I don’t think that’s—”

“Uther’s out for the afternoon, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she said, her foot bumping against his leg under the table. “He’s playing golf. He won’t be back for hours.”

*

The Pendragon house stood out in gleaming white against the grey sky, and Merlin wished he’d suggested going back to his instead. The heavy oak door swung open, revealing a swirl of staircase and portraits of their ancestors dating all the way back to medieval times. Merlin tried not to stare at them, or the vases sitting on plinths that appeared to have been positioned expressly to take advantage of unsuspecting elbows. He tucked his into his side and gripped his bag. It made him feel like a schoolboy, but that was better than rendering a priceless work of art into shards.

“My friend and I have something to discuss,” Morgana said, to the butler standing like a statue next to the wall. “Could you bring us some refreshments and then leave us be for the afternoon?”

“Of course.”

With a deferential nod, the butler hastened down the hall, clicking his fingers at a maid who was staring at Merlin with wide eyes. Merlin tried to flatten his hair, to look more like he belonged, but he didn’t and never would. Not unless it was to work in the kitchen making cocktails for the guests or scrubbing the tiled floor.

“It’s this way,” Morgana said, indicating a long, dark wood-panelled hall. 

Morgana’s room turned out to be more of an entire wing than a bedroom. Behind the heavy wooden door sat what would technically be called an entrance hall and lounge, both of which could easily contain Merlin’s entire flat. Huge windows looked out over Camelot, gauzy curtains fluttering in the breeze, and imposing furniture had been perfectly placed between them. A bust of Morgana’s father stared out from one, a writing desk sat in the other, and three sofas offered different seating options, each draped with enough throws and cushions to create the illusion of cosiness. The far wall held an impressive enough library to require a ladder and on the other was a doorway.

A rap on the door made Merlin jump, and Morgana chuckled lightly at him before calling, “Enter.”

The butler wheeled a trolley in. It was draped with an impeccable white linen tablecloth, on which strawberries lolled in a tureen and a bucket filled with ice held two bottles.

To get out of the way, Merlin edged towards the doorway, but as soon as he was through it he realised it was Morgana’s bedroom.

A quick glance around told him it was no less opulent than the other room—parquet floor and a lot of rugs, and a large claw foot bath in front of one of the windows, gold taps gleaming in the sunlight. The bed itself had glossy wooden rolls on each of the four posts and enough blankets to comfortably sleep a family of six. On the bedside table was a stack of immaculately bound books with intricately decorated covers and a burnt down candle, and various bottles with labels bearing sheep and plants Merlin knew were only recommended for slumber.

The butler placed the trolley next to one of the sofas and offered to uncork a bottle, Morgana waving him off. “Thank you,” she said. “That will be all. Let me know when Uther’s home?”

Merlin hovered in the bedroom doorway until he heard the bolt of the door click, heart quickening as Morgana joined him.

“Can’t remember the last time I had a bath,” he said, just for something to say to fill the echoing silence of the room.

“I can run it for you, if you’d like.”

Without waiting for an answer, Morgana walked over to the tub, turning on one of the taps and dangling her fingers in the running water.

Merlin swallowed.

“Relax, Merlin,” she said, upending the bottle that sat on its own wooden chair next to the bath into the water, beckoning him over.

Merlin dumped his bag next to the bed and peeled off his jacket, kicking his shoes to join them. When he reached her, she stood, taking him in for a moment before running her hands over the front of his shirt, the same way she had at the donor dinner. He’d wanted her so much that night, though he tried not to think about it, to keep his mind on the job at hand and not the idea of what they might do together if they found an empty room.

Steam swirled up from the water, filling the air with the soft scent of sea breezes and samphire. Morgana tilted her head, gaze on his mouth, and like a magnet pulled towards metal, he kissed her, undoing the buttons on his shirt with one hand while he let the other tangle in her hair. They peeled him out of his remaining clothes together and he stepped into the water while the bath was still filling, sinking back into the warmth of it.

Morgana crouched, resting her chin on the side of the bath, regarding him from there, one hand trailing in the water and making ripples that radiated all the way to his leg. He imagined her here, one leg tossed over the side of the bath, a book in her hand and bubbles all around her.

“What?” she said.

“Nothing.”

With the afternoon sun all around her and her eyes glittering, she looked like the most beautiful thing in the entire realm. “Come here,” he said, almost surprised when she did.

He loved the way her face felt in his hands as their mouths fitted together, water from his fingers sliding down over her skin to make dark spots on the red fabric of her dress. She kissed like he was everything, like she wanted to burn through him, like he was precious. He could never quite fathom where it came from, this intensity of longing she seemed to have for him. But he liked it.

He reached for her shoulder and pulled her closer—only there wasn’t really any closer with the belly of the bath between them, so he urged her over and in, dress and all. She laughed as she landed. Water sloshed over the side and onto the floor, and she looked down at herself, delighting in the way her dress clung to her skin.

It took a moment to rearrange, her sliding through the water to get into his lap, the weight of her body welcome against his erection. She kissed him, wrapping her arms around his neck and Merlin knew the instant that it happened that he’d chase the feeling of her grin against his mouth, the sensation of her pushing bubbles into his hair, forever.

He let his hands slide down her body, parting her dress and freeing her skin, ducking down to suck one of her nipples into his mouth. She rode him just like that, causing waves to tip over the sides of the bath and splash onto the wooden floor, her dress around her waist. He made her come so hard she had to bite his lip to keep from shouting and he held her to him long after they’d both steadied their breathing.

*

When Merlin got home, it was almost midnight.

He walked through the flat, covered in the scent of her, thinking about joining the dots between the freckles on her thigh with his fingertips. He hadn’t meant to stay so long, but he couldn’t tear himself away. Not when she was whispering things to him that he never thought he’d hear anyone say.

_I crave you, Merlin, every second that you’re not inside me._

He thought of his own breathless reply against her neck, as if someone else had said it: _same. Me too. I don’t want anything the way I want you._


	8. Avoid ad hominem attacks. Attacking your opponent personally rather than dismantling their ideas is a sign of weakness.

Merlin woke with a start, just after dawn.

His heart raced as if he’d been having a nightmare, but the more he grasped for what it was about, the less he could remember the details. He downed the glass of water on his bedside table and scrubbed his hands through his hair, listening to the familiar sound of Gwaine snoring in the other room.

Unable to get back to sleep, he headed into the office.

On the way, he passed workers off to another brutal day building Camelot’s magical defences, as well as cafe workers who’d be there to hand breakfast on the go to people like Arthur who still had money to spend on such things.

The sun was just peeking over the trees when he arrived. He’d even beaten Leon to it, so he switched on the coffee machine and waited while it gurgled into life.

Evidently they’d made good progress without him yesterday. Several boxes of Jiffy bags lined up near Leon’s desk and stacked up next to them were bundles of flyers with printed out maps and routes highlighted in pink neon for the volunteers. A smaller stack had named Post-its on, Elyan and Percy, Gwen and Gwaine, a small bunch for Arthur to drop through doors personally for a photo opp.

Grabbing a mug and some cereal, Merlin took Arthur’s desk so he could work on edits to the debate speech.

When anyone asked, he said it was coming along nicely. It wasn’t a lie, as such, but it didn’t feel like the truth either. Every time he looked at it, the ideas that seemed so big when they were in his head shrank. They felt flimsy. Insubstantial. Enough for a conversation but not a four-year term.

He turned the pages, scanning his own statistics and data, the quotes he’d pulled, looking for something he knew wasn’t actually there. Morgana’s words about how what people say to a pollster and what they actually vote for circled his head. _They’d still burn a neighbour at the stake if they thought they had real power._

It was a sticking point he’d been avoiding thinking directly about.

There were levels of magic. Plenty of people could make a poultice and give it a little boost by incanting words they’d been taught by a grandma or distant uncle. No one really objected to that sort of thing anymore. No one cared about crystals that bought people comfort or spell books that were actually more about myths tied to specific herbs. But the people with real magic—the ones who had been herded into the Magical Defence Programme—would people ever trust them? And what about those with more power than that? What about people like Morgana and Merlin, who could level a building with nothing more than a word?

He needed to speak to Gaius, but a check of his watch told him it was still far too early to call. He doodled on the edge of Arthur’s notebook, a series of houses with increasingly dark roofs, wondering if Arthur had enough charisma to make up for the failings Merlin could see in his own work.

When he’d first roped Arthur into this, he’d thought ideas would be enough, that hope would spring from them and they could figure out the rest later.

It didn’t work like that, though. The closer they got to the real meat of the campaign, to leaflet drops and doorstep discussion, to debates and decisions, the more it felt like this was their only shot, that if Merlin missed this, he’d live under Morgause’s rule for the rest of his life.

The thought made him nauseous. It wasn’t the secrecy he hated so much as the stifling of his skills. They atrophied with lack of use. Not being able to discuss the honing of them with the Druids, to share knowledge with others, it made him feel trapped.

It flitted through his mind that there was one person he could share those thoughts with, one person with whom he could be honest if he really wanted to, but just thinking it made him feel as if he was standing on the edge of a crumbling cliff.

Maybe that was what his nightmare had been about.

*

Just before eight, the door banged open.

Arthur hurled a newspaper onto the desk. “What the hell is this?”

Merlin didn’t need to look at it to know it was a picture of him and Morgana, but as it landed, he noticed the photographer had captured her laughing. She looked very alive, and all he could think about was her sitting on the edge of the bed in her silk dressing gown, him on his knees, burying his face between her thighs instead of saying goodbye.

“They call it lunch, Arthur.”

Arthur paced the entire length of the room, twice, his face reddening with every step. “And?”

“And what?”

He rounded on Merlin, hands on his hips. “And what the hell are you doing having lunch with _Morgana_?”

Merlin stared back with studied evenness. “I was giving her some of the new badges.”

“Badges? You’ve created a page seven scandal over _badges_?”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “It’s not a scandal.” Merlin skimmed the text to make sure. “Look, it’s mostly about the kind of salad she ordered and which designer she’s wearing.”

Admittedly the inset photo of them dancing at the donor dinner and the words _new suitor, believed to be part of the Pendragon campaign_ were not the most helpful, but he was sure it wasn’t anything Gwaine couldn’t handle inside half a dozen phone calls if he needed to.

Arthur clearly didn’t buy it.

“Fine,” Merlin said. “I was asking her about helping out on the campaign.”

“Why on earth would you do that?”

“Because I think she’d be an asset?” Merlin said. “She’s always in the papers—they’d love it.”

“She’s unstable, Merlin.”

Merlin’s jaw tightened. A dozen retorts fired across his tongue— _that’s a shitty thing to say, she’s your sister, she’s no less stable than I am_ —but he kept them in his mouth. “We need Uther’s endorsement. Morgana can help us get it.”

“You don’t think I can get my own father’s endorsement on my own merits?” Arthur said, adding, with a roll of his eyes, “Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence, Merlin.”

In truth, Merlin thought that was wishful thinking. Both Arthur and Morgana were tight-lipped about how Uther actually was these days, but they’d let slip enough that Merlin knew their home was a place of protocol and polite conversation peppered with the odd screaming argument about progress. Uther might disagree with Morgause, but that didn’t mean he’d accepted magic.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Merlin said.

“However you meant it,” Arthur said, “this is my campaign, not my father’s.”

The pictures on the wall gazed down: Arthur with Uther, one arm casually slung around his shoulder; Arthur with Montgomery and Grant, moments after they’d heard he’d secured their freedom. Arthur had pressed ahead with his work in spite of his father’s opposition.

“For someone who’s spent so long playing the game,” Merlin said, “you’re still very naive about how things actually work.”

“Please, enlighten me.”

“The papers are starting to speculate. That he hasn’t said anything—it doesn’t look good, Arthur.”

“Have I not said enough for both of us?” Arthur said. “I must’ve spoken to twenty journalists by yesterday lunchtime. I’ve got a profiler from the Chronicle coming at nine—a radio show where I’m supposed to talk about my favourite music and tie it all to policy at ten. There can’t be many people in Camelot I haven’t given an interview to.”

“But that’s why we need him. It’s a different message. A different story. It opens up a whole new demographic.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched.

Merlin knew enough about the various different clenches which passed for Arthur’s emotional range to tell this particular one meant he knew Merlin was right but didn’t want to admit it. He pressed on. “Until your father supports you, Morgause can claim he’s on her side.”

“He would _never_ be on her side,” Arthur said, nostrils flaring and his eyes flashing with anger.

“I know that. You know that. Even she knows that. But it’s what her people can suggest—” Merlin leant forward in the chair, regarding Arthur over the desk. “Suggestion and whispers, Arthur, they could ruin us. One comment from one of your father’s golf buddies about what he really thinks and we’re toast.”

Arthur considered it for a moment, brow furrowed and eyes darting around for a different solution. “I’ll ask him myself, then. Leave Morgana out of it.”

“He won’t endorse you if you ask precisely because you’ve asked. If _you_ ask, he’ll see it as weakness. He’ll think he’s doing you a favour by saying no and letting you stand on your own two feet. If _she_ asks, it’s a different thing altogether. It gives him a way to say yes.” 

Arthur considered Merlin the way he often did back at the bar, when Merlin would read an essay Arthur was struggling with over his shoulder and supply an argument that fixed the entire thing. Arthur’s low expectations weren’t difficult to vault over, but it still stung a little every time to see Arthur’s surprise when Merlin said something he didn’t consider abjectly stupid.

“Look,” Merlin said, reaching for his now soggy cereal. “You focus on the debate and let me worry about strategy. I know what needs to be done. Just let me do it.”

“Under no circumstances are you to approach my father begging for his support.”

“No begging. Just—trust me.”

Arthur grimaced. “It’d be easier to do that if you didn’t look like an intern.”

Merlin looked up, with a mouthful of Cornflakes. “An intern? I don’t look like—”

Arthur waved at him. “You’re dressed like one.”

“There’s nothing wrong with—” Merlin assessed the state of his shirt. Admittedly it was yesterday’s and there were dribbles of milk on the pocket. “What’s a couple of creases? Is it a smart use of my time to be firing steam into my outfit? Soon as I sit down it’d look like I hadn’t bothered so…why bother?”

“There are such things as standards, Merlin. Get a haircut before the debate at least.”

“There won’t be a debate unless Morgause agrees to it.”

“That’s—not the point.”

With a roll of his eyes, Merlin wiped his mouth on his cuff and slid the newest draft of the debate speech, complete with his edits, over the desk. “You want to see?”

“No,” Arthur said, with a sigh, but he span the stack of paper around anyway and skimmed the top page, flipping a few pages to a section that outlined the key campaign aims and relevant statistics, along with Morgause’s likely counters.

Merlin watched for his reaction.

“This is—” Arthur tilted his head, as if the statistics might make more sense at a 45-degree angle. “What is this?”

“A breakdown of key aims?”

“No, this,” Arthur said, indicating a particular number with his finger. “That—that can’t be true.”

Merlin leant in to see what he was indicating. “77% of people support reform?” Merlin said. “What’s surprising about that?”

“It’s just—it’s very high. Where did you get the figure?”

“What do you think I do all day?” Merlin said. “I go through stuff. I read research. I compile and conduct surveys. I talk to people.”

Arthur frowned, as if he was trying to complete a jigsaw puzzle but all he had left in the box was a screwdriver rather than the final piece. “And this one—64% of people think laws governing the control of people with magic are too strict?”

“Did you not read _any_ of the notes I made you?”

“Not yet,” Arthur said.

“Arthur—”

“I work better when they’re fresh in my mind.”

With a sigh, Merlin leant forward on Arthur’s chair, resting his elbows on the desk. “So you don’t know, then,” he said, “that 30% more people support magical rights than 10 years ago? Our research suggests that Morgause’s controls have had the opposite effect to what she intended. 10 years ago, hardly anyone knew someone who’d been prosecuted or persecuted for use of magic—but in expanding the list of prohibited activities, she created a whole raft of people who now personally know someone who’s been fined or imprisoned. 58% of people have friends or family who’ve been harmed by the regulations. That’s more than half.”

“I had no idea people felt so strongly about it.”

“Your problem, Arthur—aside from not reading my notes—is that you spend so long socialising with the privileged or rescuing the needy, you can’t see how hungry for change ordinary people are. That’s the only reason you find any of this surprising. Five years ago—two years ago, even—if you’d mentioned having magic in the Rising Sun, you’d have been thrown out. Now, they’re more likely to ask you to come over and see if you can heal their daughter because they can’t afford to go to the apothecary. The focus on magic has all but killed society. Magical rights isn’t just about magic. Never has been.”

The door opened and Leon came in, dragging his satchel over his head and closing the door with his foot at the same time. “Ah, you’re both here already,” Leon said.

“Morning,” Merlin said. “There’s coffee if you want some and then I’ll take you through the changes to the speech so you can include some of the latest data in the new flyers and get them off to the printer.”

“Righty-ho,” Leon said.

“And then can you make sure Arthur gets to the radio studio on time? And find him some kind of jumper to make him look a bit less—”

“Stuffy?” Leon offered.

“Yes. Exactly.”

“I think we have a sweater from the last food drive.”

“That’s very on message.”

“I aim to please,” Leon said, and ducked out to again.

Merlin turned to Arthur, but his smile was met with a frown.

“When you’re finished micro-managing my entire existence,” Arthur said, “I’d quite like my desk back.”

“Sorry,” Merlin said, scraping his stuff off the desk and making for his cupboard, taking the paper with the picture of him and Morgana with him.


	9. Appear confident. Don’t fidget. Make eye contact with your opponent and audience. Speak clearly and avoid filler language.

_ Camelot Chronicle, April 15th _

_It’s said that spring is a time of renewal, and down at Pendragon HQ, there’s certainly something fresh in the air. This week’s opinion polls show Arthur Pendragon pulling ahead after a couple of strong appearances across the media. In particular, his guest spot on Isle of the Blessed Disco—where guests are invited to pick the five songs and a book they’d take with them if stranded there—is credited with showing voters a more human side to a candidate who has been perceived as a little dry and intellectual by some._

_Pendragon’s choice of popular folk song ‘Can You Imagine?’ was a particularly canny one, as it’s been an anthem for magical rights campaigners in the outer realms for years, rising to popularity when covered by the Western Isle legend Margaret O’Rourke. Speaking about the importance of the song to brother-in-law to be and host Elyan Smith, Pendragon said he saw the song as one of intrinsic hopefulness about the power of creating a future by imagining it first, that shared vision was at the heart of what politics should be about. He talked about how that approach was informed by his dealings with refugees from other realms, that their belief in what Camelot could be fuelled his own vision for it, that the power of collective imagination and shared values could not be overestimated._

_Listeners were also delighted when Pendragon revealed some more personal insights into his relationship with fiancé Gwen Smith, naming Wild and Splendid Love as one of their songs and letting slip that they’d just decided they’ll be dancing to it at their reception._

_Being almost family didn’t stop Elyan Smith from asking probing questions. He pressed Arthur on both whether he agreed that some limits on magic should be set and whether Camelot could actually afford the ambitious education plan outlined in the latest speech given by Arthur at a teacher’s convention. Pendragon answered well, directing listeners to where they could read the fully-costed version of the plan, which includes training in magic, for themselves. He couldn’t resist a dig at Morgause, pointing out that a lot of these issues would benefit from an open and frank discussion so voters could make up their own minds._

_After such a strong fortnight, commentators are asking how much longer Morgause can avoid a debate without losing the support of her most stalwart allies, including Cenred, who sources say tires of her evasiveness and thinks she needs to step up and put Arthur in his place publicly._

_With a gala dinner thrown by the United Albionists in his honour on the way next week to mark their official endorsement of his Ruler candidacy, it leaves Arthur full of the joys of spring, with a lot of folk wondering if it’s autumn for his opponent._

_Gwaine Green is a columnist for the Camelot Chronicle._

Merlin looked up from the seating plan he’d been agonising over, but he hadn’t been mistaken. Someone was knocking on his door. He glanced at the clock before hauling himself to his feet. “You forget your key again, Gwaine?” he said as he tugged it open. “I thought you were with L—”

Morgana stood on the top of the fire escape, hugging herself against the cold. Usually she was dressed like a mannequin from the window display in Camelot’s priciest department store, but tonight she was wearing ripped jeans and a huge grey jumper, her hair pulled back from her face in a messy knot. “Can I come in?” she said, casting a wary glance behind her.

“Of—of course,” Merlin said, standing back for her to squeeze past him.

Morgana looked wildly out of place in his kitchen. The last time she’d been here, they’d barely paused, no time for her to take in the draining board piled with crockery or the cereal packets stacked on top of the fridge because there was nowhere else for them to go. But as her gaze flitted from one crowded surface to the next, Merlin got the sense that she wasn’t judging his housekeeping or disturbed by how many kinds of tea Gwaine owned.

“What happened?”

Morgana clutched at her elbows, eyes unable to settle on anything, even him.

“Morgana,” he said, gingerly touching her arm. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” she said, with an unconvincing smile. “Can I just stay here for a while?”

Merlin gestured to the lounge, and as she went through, he bolted the kitchen door, checking the window. The dark shadows below shifted, but there was nothing untoward that he could see.

He followed her through to the lounge, where Morgana sat on the sofa, pulling her legs up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. The papers Merlin had been working on lay abandoned on the coffee table and on his ancient record player span an equally ancient album. Even though Morgana was in none of her usual finery, she made everything in the place look shabby and tired.

“Drink?” he said, hovering in the doorway. “I could make cocoa?”

“I’m not a child.”

“I’ll have you know I make a very adult cocoa,” he said, aiming for levity, smiling when she relaxed her grip on her legs just a little. “Go on. Say yes. I need an excuse.”

Her face scrunched as if there was some internal debate happening before she said, “Ok.”

Merlin busied himself in the kitchen, checking both the window and the lounge every few minutes while he stirred the cocoa powder through the milk. He added a decent measure of Gwaine’s emergency whiskey to both mugs before pouring the cocoa in and rummaging in the cupboard for something to add to the top.

He carried them through to where she was sitting on the sofa, and perched on the edge of the coffee table, so their legs almost touched, fingers brushing as she took one of the mugs from him.

“Marshmallows,” she said, poking at one so it bobbed.

“Like I said. Very adult.”

She took a sip and rested the mug against her knee. “Sorry I crashed your evening,” she said.

“I’m not,” Merlin said, gesturing to the papers he’d shoved aside to sit down. “You saved me from a lot of very dull statistics and trying to decide where to sit the ambassador when everyone hates him.”

“He’s not that bad.”

“Do _you_ want to sit next to him?”

“I would rather eat a boiled frog.”

“Oh, good because that’s actually the starter,” Merlin said, and she smiled softly into her mug.

“Who’d you have me with?” she said.

Merlin glanced at the chart. Arthur’s table had important party members and key donors and where Uther would sit was a question mark. “You’re on Gwen’s table,” he said, “along with a handful of wealthy aristocrats who I thought you’d both enjoy toying with.”

Ambassador aside, it had been one of the most difficult tables to arrange. Merlin had wanted to put himself at Morgana’s elbow, but instead he’d picked the guy who’d cut in on their dance at the donor dinner. He was one of the sons of a duke, and had any older brother Merlin had also seated at the table, who had exceptionally large teeth and a misplaced belief in his own abilities as a horseman.

“Oh not George Barclay,” Morgana said, leaning in to sneak a peek at the chart. “Swap him with someone.”

“Who?”

“Anyone.” Merlin raised an eyebrow at her. “Anyone _except_ the ambassador.”

Merlin laughed, considered the chart for a moment before swapping George for Lancelot, an activist who’d recently been making waves talking about the importance of fair trade and he knew Gwen was a fan of. Then, he set his cocoa down on top of the chart as if to demonstrate she had his full attention and clasped his hands together, letting them hang between his knees. “You want to—I don’t know—tell me what happened? Why you came here?”

The question hung in the air. They’d known each other a long time, but still it felt as if he was probing where he didn’t belong.

“Can I not just want to see you?” Morgana said. Her gaze flickered to his and then over his shoulder, towards where the record player sat. “I didn’t take you for a Margaret O’Rourke fan.”

Merlin smiled, slowly shaking his head and rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s Gwaine’s, actually. Half of everything he owns is vinyl.”

“I read his column,” she said. “He’s surprisingly emotive.”

“Let’s hope the voters think so,” Merlin said, “when they hear the debate speech he’s written.”

“You think that’ll go ahead?”

Merlin murmured. “She can’t avoid it much longer. Even her pet newspapers are calling her a coward. The Albion Mail have run it every day this week.”

Morgana wrapped her hands around her mug and they sat quietly for a moment, listening to the scratchy live recording from before Merlin was born. Gwaine favoured older records—or maybe that was all he could afford—and Merlin liked the live ones, the noise of the crowd as they reacted to a fluffed line or impromptu joke. It was like stepping into a slightly more glamourous world, just for a moment, a chance to pretend he was sitting at a table with a cocktail and thinking about nothing except the music.

In another lifetime, maybe he and Morgana would’ve gone to those places, sat across the table from each other, flirting in glances and knee touches. He tried not to let the thought show on his face, reached for his cocoa and took a sip, glancing at the paperwork beneath. Maybe he could move the ambassador to Gaius’s table of wealthy arty types.

“Don’t let me keep you,” Morgana said, her gaze roaming to the stack of cheap second-hand paperbacks piled next to the coffee table. “If I can borrow a book, I’ll be perfectly happy.”

“Sure. Help yourself.”

She slid off the cushions and surveyed the stack, picking a couple up to read the backs and regarding the covers.

Merlin took the other end of the sofa, drawing his notebook towards him. He decided to leave the ambassador for the morning, instead making notes on what he really hoped would be the final draft of the debate speech.

*

Eventually it grew late enough for Merlin to start yawning. He ignored the first couple, buried one or two in his sleeve, but his eyes felt gritty and he needed to be at the office first thing tomorrow.

Morgana glanced at him over the cover of a shabby mystery novel with a twist that had made Merlin gasp out loud. He expected her to say something—after all, she was the one who was used to fitting wherever she found herself, to having her every whim catered to—but she returned her attention to the book.

“It’s late,” he said, and when her gaze flickered up, added, “you want to stay?”

“Would that be ok?”

He nodded, bundling the papers he was working on and shoving them onto the table in a pile, gathering their mugs together and taking them to the kitchen. When he returned, Morgana was hovering in the doorway between the lounge and his bedroom.

“I’ll find you something to wear,” he said, smiling as he slipped past her to the old chest. The drawer croaked as he dragged it open, shoving work shirts aside to find a t-shirt with a faded beer logo on the front. He held it out, gesturing towards the bathroom.

“You going to lend me a spare toothbrush too?” she said, taking the t-shirt from his hands.

“If you think I have people over often enough to have a stash of those, you’ve seriously overestimated my appeal.”

Morgana smiled as she dodged around him, and he listened to the running of the taps before tugging his jeans off and pulling on another of his collection of faded t-shirts with hardly recognisable names of beers on the front from his days pulling pints. He gazed around the room, wondering if he should make it more homely and appealing. He didn’t really have enough stuff for it to be messy, thankfully. He gathered a few lost items that were scattered across the bedside table and shoved them into the drawers and kicked a couple of shirts that hadn’t made it to the laundry hamper yet under the bed.

As he straightened, Morgana came back in, her hair loose waves around her face. She ducked under his gaze.

“Which side?” he said.

“It’s your bed.”

Merlin supposed that was true. He turned on the lamp and got into his usual side on the left, tugging the patchwork blanket his mother made him up around himself. He was reminded of Morgana’s silky sheets, the way the cotton didn’t even feel like cotton against his skin. Merlin’s bed linen was nothing like that: made with love but not much skill, the various squares different sizes depending on how much fabric could be culled from leftovers, the stitches themselves big enough to reflect his mother’s dislike of wearing her glasses.

Morgana had seen it all before, but that felt incidental.

Intention made things different.

Morgana slipped her long legs underneath, tucking her hair behind her ear as Merlin turned off the lamp, so that they were face to face on pillows in the dark.

Merlin had slept—literally slept—with people often: his mother when they could only afford one tiny room; his childhood friend Will when they squashed into tents; Gwaine more recently when Merlin let himself get talked into one whiskey more than he could handle. He was accustomed to the soft noise of someone else breathing and the occasional brush of a knee beneath the covers, but this was different. Morgana’s eyes glinted and everything greyed out.

“Those things you were reading earlier,” she said. “The reports on harmful magic.” She paused, lips moving but not quite making a word until Merlin nodded in encouragement. “Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“That with the right education—with schooling—and practice—incidence of dangerous magic go down?”

“Oh yeah,” Merlin said. “Massively. It’s the suppression of magic and people doing it in secret that makes it dangerous.”

“And you think—you don’t think Morgause’s way is the answer? Using magic only in controlled circumstances?”

“Dragging people away from their families and making them work all hours, exhausting themselves, channelling their magic in ways not of their choosing?” Merlin said. “It’s far from the only way.”

Morgana shifted on the pillow, and when she spoke again, her voice was soft with longing. “What do you think it could be like? A Camelot full of magic?”

Merlin let his hand move from where it was clutching the blanket underneath his chin to her side, smoothing the folds down. “I think it could be like… children making shapes out of sparks around a campfire to make their friends smile. And protection spells for certain plants and animals and places to preserve them, and all kinds of new jobs—alchemy and apothecary just for starters—and people could live more in tune with nature, do more with less. No more everyone working themselves into an early grave—magic making things go further and making things easier—machines kept going with magic and magical components and inventions.” 

“Sounds nice.”

Merlin murmured, but it didn’t seem like there was much else to say about it.

After a moment, he let his eyelids drop closed, thinking about the woods around his home when he was a kid, how he’d go there to conjure shapes out of smoke and blow them into the sky, longing for someone to see them and also desperate never to be found out.

“Merlin,” Morgana said softly, “do you think it’s possible for a good person to… do bad magic?”

Merlin opened his eyes, assessing her expression in the dark, but he couldn’t tell if it was a hypothetical or related to the thing that had propelled her here in the first place. “I don’t think it’s that simple.”

Morgana shifted closer, voice lowering to little more than a whisper. “I did something,” she said, forehead creasing. “Something I didn’t mean to.”

“What was it?”

At the wobble of her chin, Merlin reached for her shoulder, pulling her towards him. She nestled into his neck, breath warm and fast. “I can’t,” she said, and there was something so broken about it, Merlin swallowed a swell of tears in his own throat. “I can’t, Merlin. I just—”

“Shh, it’s ok. You’re safe here. You’re safe with me.”

He stroked her shoulder, murmured nonsense words of comfort into her hair, rocking her gently. He tried not to imagine what it might be. She’d started fires and collapsed ceilings, made someone blind—all of it unintentional. He’d felt her magic. It was wild and uncompromising, built of fury and fire. She was capable of so much chaos and destruction, but it was hard to believe it when she curled against him, shedding tears over his skin.

*

Merlin woke with his arm stretched across the bed. He blinked against the pre-dawn light pouring in through the thin curtains. It simultaneously felt as if he’d been asleep for seconds and centuries.

Morgana stood at the window in his old t-shirt, staring out across the city.

In another world, another reality, this was something he’d dreamed of: a beautiful girl wearing his things, comfortable enough with him to act as she would if he wasn’t there. That was what he’d always wanted, the easiness of someone just slipping into his life as if they’d always been there and always would be.

Before last night, he didn’t think Morgana could ever be that. He thought she would always belong to another world, one of cocktails and rare jewels and stilted dinner conversations underneath glittering chandeliers. That she fit so well, seemed so at home amongst his tattered third-hand belongings as Gwaine did turned everything he thought he knew upside down.

“I should get going,” she said.

“You should come back to bed,” Merlin said.

She glanced at him, lip just curling into a smile. For a second he thought she was going to say no, that she needed to get back before Uther woke up and the butler decided to send a search party, but she took his extended hand, let him draw her back to him. As she tucked herself back under the covers, he wondered what he’d actually just invited her to.

This wasn’t like the other times, where the fog of desire and frantic momentum propelled them together and he knew it was something they wouldn’t be able to put back in the bottle once it was out.

“Ok?” he said, shuffling himself into her side, stroking her hair away from her face.

“I don’t sleep well, sometimes,” she said. “Especially without my potions.”

Merlin murmured a kiss against her temple. He’d seen them all on her nightstand, arranged like a buffet, pills and brown bottles with droppers in them, mist-coloured liquids with hand-written notes on them about nightmares. It was obvious they’d been mixed specially for her and weren’t the kind of thing that could be acquired easily; he’d recognise Gaius’s handwriting anywhere.

“You could bring them with you,” Merlin said. “Next time.”

“I left in sort of a hurry,” she said, but she flicked her gaze towards him, eyes slightly surprised so as to suggest she hadn’t missed the implication that he wanted to do this again. “You’re supposed to say you’ll wear me out, Merlin.”

“Yeah well, I’ve never been very good at saying what I’m supposed to. If you’re banking on a specific response, you’re going to have to write me a script.”

She smiled at that, turning towards him slightly. “Ask me again?” she said.

“You ok?”

“I’d be a lot better if you had your hand under my t-shirt.”

“It’s my t-shirt actually,” Merlin said, but he slipped a hand underneath it anyway, worn cotton soft against his knuckles as he traced the way over her ribs to the softness above.

Morgana covered his hand with hers, moving it to where she wanted it. “I’m keeping it,” she said, eyes fluttering almost all the way to closed as he thumbed over her nipple.

The way her body responded to him was always a surprise, made his heart race like he’d run halfway to Ealdor. He worked a slow circle as her nipple hardened, ducking his head to lick over it, t-shirt and all, murmuring as she threaded her fingers through his hair. He kissed all the way down to where his t-shirt ran out, over her stomach and to the top of her knickers, her fingers twisting against his scalp as she dragged him up for a kiss.

His ancient bed creaked as he shifted on top of her, announcing each tiny adjustment as they moved against each other. It sounded impossibly loud against the backdrop of a not-quite stirring Camelot and Merlin wondered if Gwaine had come home. He had no memory of hearing him, but Gwaine could be stealthy when he wanted to be, and with Morgana curled against him, he’d been aware of little else but the rhythm of her breathing and the thunking of his own pulse as he tried to parse what her showing up meant.

Normally her kisses were hungry and demanding, fleeting as her mouth moved on to bite at his neck and whisper obscenities against his ear; these were drawn out and deep, felt like letting out the longing he normally kept carefully locked up. But inevitably they led to the same place, to him sliding inside her, loving the way she arched up into him. He buried his face into her neck, drawing the scent of her into his lungs, scraping his teeth across her skin and kissing her there, smiling open mouthed as she shivered at the sensation and clung to his arm.

He wanted to tell her things, to pour it all out, the things that languished in his soul and he never even thought directly about for fear of what the acknowledgement of them would mean. He wanted to tell her: _no one has ever made me feel anything like this. You are magic and I want to drown in you._ And he didn’t care what she took from him, what any of this cost him, so long as he could hear her coming, calling his name, _Merlin Merlin Merlin_ like a curse.

*

The wind whipped around the fire escape.

Merlin tugged his shirt to him, resisting the urge to hop from foot to foot, like he normally did when Gwaine persuaded him that having their breakfast out here would be good for their constitutions.

Morgana’s hair blustered around them both and she smiled at her feet, which seemed almost comically bashful after everything.

“See you, then,” Merlin said.

The words felt wholly inadequate for the soft yet seismic shift in their relationship which he thought had occurred somewhere between her question about bad people and him pinning her wrists to the pillow and trying to reassure her with nothing but his mouth on her neck.

When she didn’t say anything, he stepped forward, taking her face in his hands and lifting her mouth to his.

Kissing her was like nothing else, and he let himself forget anything else existed for a blissful moment until behind him, there was the noise of someone banging their shin on the coffee table and swearing in surprise.

Merlin pressed his lips together, drawing back.

“Ok, now I’d really better go,” Morgana said, with amusement.

Merlin waved at her retreating figure as she skipped down the fire escape, hugging her jumper to her over the top of his t-shirt.

When he turned back to the kitchen, Gwaine was leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed and one eyebrow so high on his forehead it was in danger of toppling off. “Well aren’t you a dark horse,” he said.

“Gwaine, it’s not—”

“Oh it’s exactly what it looks like,” Gwaine said, with a sly grin. “How thick do you think these walls are?”

Merlin scratched the back of his head. He probably should’ve thought of that.

“And good on you to be honest,” Gwaine said. “She’s a fine lady, no mistake.”

Merlin winced. “Do I need to tell you not to tell Arthur?”

“Would’ve thought you’d be more worried about me running it on page seven.”

Merlin sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. He hadn’t thought of that, either. Some strategist he was. If Arthur found out it would be bad, but if Gaius found out in a newspaper, he’d kill him, then engage in some necromancy to yell at him again about what poor judgement he’d displayed before killing him again. “Yeah, well, that too.”

Gwaine mimed zipping his mouth shut. “Lucky for you I am discretion personified. You want a tea?”

“Sure. But put it in something I can take to the office.” Merlin looked out in the direction Morgana had headed before closing the door. “And page _seven_?” Merlin said. “Seven? She’s Morgana Pendragon.”

“You’re right, it’s at least a page two story. It’s lucky for you I’m a very loyal flatmate. And if you need someone to pretend to date as cover so Arthur doesn’t realise you’re having illicit rendezvous with his sister, I am available.”

“Gwaine—”

Gwaine backed into the kitchen with his hands raised. “I’m just saying. You want chamomile or something stronger?”

*

The office was a hive of activity by the time they arrived. Leon was marshalling volunteers like a harassed sheep dog who hadn’t had enough training and had got stuck with a particularly unruly flock. In a brief reprieve between groups, he fisted his hair with both hands, staring at the pile of pamphlets and muttering to himself about whether he absolutely positively gave the two people charged with covering the south of Camelot the right pile.

Gwaine clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to almost make his knees buckle. “You’re doing a grand job,” he said, stealing a piece of Leon’s toast and shoving it into his mouth.

Leon made several flustered noises in quick succession, before grabbing Merlin’s arm as he headed towards his cupboard. “Arthur wanted to see you,” he said.

“Now?”

Leon nodded.

Merlin retrieved the latest press clippings off his desk before rapping on the door of Arthur’s office. More than one shadow moved inside but Arthur shouted, “Enter,” anyway.

Merlin shouldered the door to find Gaius sitting on the chair opposite Arthur, his fingertips steepled in front of him. They appeared to be midway through a conversation, tailing off into a, “Leave it with me.”

“I was hoping you’d say that, Gaius.”

“Morning,” Merlin said, dropping his bag onto the sofa. “Gaius—what are you doing here?”

“I just needed a quick word about the speech at the party dinner,” Gaius said. 

“Gaius is being modest,” Arthur said. “He’s provided some valuable insight on what some of the…more seasoned party members need to really get out and lend their support to the campaign. Take a seat—we’ll go through it. I think you’ll find it quite interesting.”

Merlin dragged a chair closer, thumbing through the clippings from today’s morning papers as Gaius reported the findings of some exploratory conversations he’d had with key party figures who had yet to open their wallets. He nodded along, even though it was nothing he hadn’t heard before from the days he and Gaius attended exactly these sorts of dinners and sat through the pontification of people who thought the entire city should run for their benefit.

“It goes without saying,” Gaius said, “that the easiest and quickest route to securing their support would be a—” He paused to shoot a significant look at Merlin. “—clarification of Uther’s position from the man himself.”

“Working on it,” Merlin said.

He knew he should’ve brought it up last night with Morgana, asked her to nudge Uther towards accepting the invite, use any influence she had over him to ensure he could be relied upon for at least one supportive quote before the debate. But in truth he hadn’t wanted to bring Uther up in case he was what she was fleeing. “This is good,” he said, lifting a clipping from the Mercia Herald. “They’ve run the statistics on changing attitudes to magical rights in full.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Gaius said, getting to his feet. He flashed Merlin a half-smile as he reached for his briefcase and made for the door.

As it closed behind him, Arthur moved a stack of files from one side of the desk to the other and then back again. “Have you been in here?” he said. “I swear I had the old manifesto—”

“Nothing to do with me. Maybe Leon bundled it with the flyers and someone on the other side of Camelot will get it shoved through their door later.”

Arthur murmured. “Ran into Morgana this morning,” Arthur said, glancing up from the folder he was holding.

“Yeah?” Merlin said, dread settling in his stomach. If Arthur knew where she’d been—well, he wasn’t entirely ready to deal with that. He needed time to put together his arguments about why it wasn’t anywhere near as bizarre and left-field as maybe it seemed.

Arthur murmured again, eyes returning to the stack of paper he was sifting through. “She was up early and seemed in somewhat uncharacteristic good spirits. If you’re still angling for her to do you a favour, today might not be a bad day to ask for it. Over lunch, or—whatever it is people do when every waking moment isn’t filled with wedding or debate prep.”

“I thought you didn’t want me having lunch with her?”

Arthur sighed. “Much as it pains me to admit it, Gaius is right. My father’s presence at the dinner would go a long way, even if he can’t bring himself to say anything positive about the campaign.”

“I said it first,” Merlin mumbled, raising his hands when Arthur glared at him. “Fine, I’ll call her. Did you pick a best man yet?”

“It’s not you.”

“I know that,” Merlin said, “even though it clearly should be. It’s just Gwaine thinks it might be a useful way to connect with the younger male demographic if we can get some pictures of you enjoying some manly but not bawdy hijinks. Leon would be a great choice. He’s surprisingly photogenic, not to mention well-connected.”

“Leon is my _assistant_.”

Merlin shrugged. “It’s not like you have time to see any of your actual friends.”

“And whose fault it that, Merlin?”

Merlin pressed his lips together and retreated before he could make things worse, retrieving the old manifesto Arthur was looking for from the top of a filing cabinet and flinging it at his head as a parting gesture.

He spent the morning tweaking the seating plan, going over who they should make sure got photographed and what sort of coverage they’d be able to get from it with Gwaine. When he looked up, it was 11am, and he cursed himself for letting the morning slip away.

Between Gwaine’s near constant calls from journalists and Leon double-checking in with the campaign volunteers every half hour, getting a moment to himself to use the phone was always a challenge, but Merlin grabbed his moment when Leon nipped out see if any of the Druids who still camped outside the office fancied a coffee. He punched in Morgana’s number, trying not to feel as if he was indeed having an illicit affair, even though he was by any measure probably doing exactly that. He ran the gauntlet of the butler, resting the receiver on his shoulder and thumbing at one of the magical rights badges Leon had left on the desk.

“Hello Merlin.”

Merlin smiled at the purr of her voice. “Hello Morgana,” he said. “You want to have lunch today?”

“You’re calling at 11 and expect me to be free for lunch?” she said, with a note of teasing.

“I’m calling at 11 and expecting you to cancel whoever it is you planned to have lunch with and have it with me instead.”

There was a pause, and Merlin tried to imagine her expression. She’d always liked it when he was like this. _You’re very forthright, Merlin,_ she’d said one night, when her date had turned into a damp squib and he’d told her that’s what happens when you accept invites to be polite rather than because a person sets your soul on fire.

“Come to the office,” Merlin said. “There’s a place down the road that does incredible pastries.”

“I don’t think Arthur would want that.”

“He would love to see you.”

“He sees me all the time and rarely seems to enjoy it.”

Merlin couldn’t help smiling at that. “Come to the office,” Merlin said, coiling the phone cable around his finger, “and let me buy you pastries, or I’ll move the ambassador _and_ George Barclay back to your table.”

“Well we can’t have that,” she said, her tone lilting. “Shall we say one o’clock?”

*

The pastries tasted better on a bench in the park than they did at Merlin’s cupboard desk. It was the sunniest day of the year so far, and Merlin squinted at the sky, envying the sunglasses taking up most of Morgana’s face.

When she’d opened the door to the office, everyone had ground to a halt. Gwaine’s fingers had frozen in mid-air above his typewriter, the volunteers had come to a dead stop in the middle of an argument about which street to hit over the lunchtime rush, even Leon—who Merlin would’ve put good money on being impossible to make abandon his duty—had left the phone ringing as he gaped at her, mouth open, for a good thirty seconds. When she announced it was Merlin she was here to see, audible surprise had rolled all the way through the office. He’d intended to run to the cafe and then show her around, but after everyone’s reaction, he figured giving them a break to process the fact of her presence might be the wisest thing for it.

Morgana pulled an apricot pastry apart, setting half on the paper bag spread on her knee. “About last night,” she said. “I’m sorry about showing up like that.”

“We’re—friends,” Merlin said. “That’s what friends do.”

“Friends?” Morgana said, lifting an eyebrow behind her giant sunglasses. “Is that what we are?”

Merlin sipped at his coffee. “That seemed like the least dangerous word when I said it,” he said. “But now I sense it may in fact be a landmine.” 

“I care more about actions than words, Merlin.”

He smiled at that, but didn’t know quite what to say to it or indeed how he was supposed to segue into asking her to use her influence to make sure Uther attended a dinner in his son’s honour. He watched a couple of squirrels on the other side of the park race each other up a tree and then down again. Back home, this kind of sight had been ten a penny, but it was rare these days that he managed to get out of the office long enough to enjoy the actual nicer spots of inner Camelot.

“Arthur’s still refusing to pick a best man,” he said.

“Nonsense,” Morgana said. “He just doesn’t know how to tell you he wants you to do it.”

Merlin turned on the bench to face her. “He told you that?”

“Of course not,” she said. “The key with Arthur is to decode what he doesn’t say. He hasn’t picked anyone else because he wants you to do it, and he wants you to do it because he wants to skip all the macho stag do lark. He just wants a quiet drink, not some embarrassing nostalgia trip through the worst excesses of his rugby captain days.”

Merlin hummed.

The wedding was planned for the day after the election. When he’d suggested it, it seemed like the ideal way to celebrate their achievement, whether or not the campaign resulted in them actually winning. Gwaine had agreed that the date worked both ways: in victory, it would kick off their reign with a party, which would lift people’s spirits and set the tone for Arthur’s government; in failure, it would create some good PR that could become the basis for another challenge in four years’ time. Now, it seemed like juggling the campaign and the wedding was too much for everyone. Gwen scurried through the office brandishing fabric samples, taking Leon’s opinion on bridesmaid dresses because there wasn’t time to ask anyone else; Arthur stayed so late every night Gwaine joked about setting up a camp bed in reception that he could just fall into. And they all knew, though it went unsaid, that things would only get more intense from here as the election drew closer.

“You think I could repurpose the seating plan for the gala for the wedding?” Merlin said. “That would save me _a lot_ of hassle.”

Morgana laughed and squeezed his arm, and in the sunshine, she looked so alive Merlin wanted to bottle the moment so he could take it out and drink from it later. She was capable of such magnificent chaos—he felt that in her magic and when she clawed for him in the dark—it seemed inconceivable that the thing she made him feel was calm.

“Two things,” Merlin said. “One—come over tonight? I’ll cook.”

“ _Can_ you cook?”

“Not really. In all honesty, you’re looking at a can of something and maybe the spinach salad my mother taught me to make to stop me dying of malnutrition.”

Morgana smiled into her scarf. “What’s the other?”

“Uther’s been invited to the gala but he hasn’t replied. Could you—” Merlin paused, letting out a sigh. “It’d mean a lot to Arthur if he came. He doesn’t have to do anything—I’m not looking for him to try and talk his old friends into making donations or speak to the press or anything. I just think Arthur needs a boost of confidence. He needs to know Uther supports him, even if he doesn’t agree with him.”

Merlin expected Morgana to scoff at the idea of Arthur being in want of confidence or admitting to needing anything at all, but instead she considered the trees on the other side of the park. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “No promises.”

Merlin smiled in reply, gathering together the remains of his pastry and the lid from his coffee. “I best get back,” he said. “Do you want to come and stuff some envelopes?”

“I’ll pass,” she said. “Uther’ll be home this afternoon and he’s having lunch with a couple of old friends so he should be in a good mood.”

They both rose, and even though the office and the Pendragon house were in different directions, she walked with him to the gate, her hand lightly tucked into the crook of his elbow. They hesitated on the pavement. There were people around, any of whom might recognise her from the gossip pages, and Merlin wasn’t sure what the parameters were, until she leant in. Her mouth brushed the corner of his, light enough to pass as friendly, except for the way her grip tightened on his arm before she swept away.


	10. Be respectful and fair. Don’t resort to insults or judgements, it makes your own argument appear weak.

_ Camelot Chronicle, April 25 _ _ th _

_Despite its issues, Camelot still knows how to pull out all the stop when it comes to throwing a party._

_The United Albionists gala dinner this evening, where party stalwarts who served under Uther Pendragon will bestow their blessing upon the young contender Arthur, is set to be a glittering affair, with the luminaries of the city all dusting off their tuxedos and opening their wallets to support the last throws of the campaign._

_But it wouldn’t be a Pendragon party without a twist, and the menu is said to contain dishes specifically chosen for their sustainability rather than their rarity, as might have been the norm at banquets in the past. Pendragon Jnr and his fiancé Gwen Smith are keen for the company and the entertainment—pulled from across the realm—to be the draw, rather than the food. They’ve also arranged for several local food banks to be provided with the same dishes to expand the celebration beyond the doors, in a move that will hopefully counteract any accusations of hypocrisy._

_They’re both expected to speak, and guests can expect Gwen to touch on her key messages of why austerity is bad for all of society, with Arthur expected to talk about magical rights and his experiences during the Montgomery Grant trial in the hope of converting the few dissenting voices inside the party as they bestow their official endorsement on his candidacy for Ruler._

_In a coup for the campaign, Uther Pendragon is thought to have accepted the invite and will be something of a guest of honour, which is a blow to Morgause’s PR team, who’ve been relying heavily on his silence. Other notables in attendance will be art dealer Sir Peregrine, Geoffrey of Monmouth, and Professor Gaius from Camelot University._

_All eyes—or those that enjoy the gossip pages at least—will also be on who Morgana Pendragon brings as her plus one and if either of the Duke of Bedford’s sons, with whom she’ll share a table, will take her fancy._

_With Uther’s seeming endorsement of his son’s campaign, pressure grows on Morgause to accept another invite—the one to debate the issues publicly, but only the next few days will tell if she’ll RSVP to that._

_Gwaine Green is a columnist for the Camelot Chronicle._

The banqueting hall was full, chandeliers glittering in the expansive ceiling and a harpist moving through their repertoire in the entrance hall. The entire place was decked out in local wildflowers, bunches of purple and orange and flaxen, and the table arrangements Merlin had slaved over were brought to life in crisp white linen and shining silverware.

The chatter of the guests rolled like a tide towards Merlin as he stood with a bunch of people three times his age, watching them eat out of the palm of Arthur’s hand as he told them he understood their fears about magic, that he had shared them at one time, and had come to learn that most folk with magical abilities wanted to use them for good, that the attacks on Camelot from Nimueh were an aberration but an anomaly. He was so deft at it, at making people come around to his way of thinking without calling them wrong or foolish, no holding them to account for the part they’d played in the persecution, Merlin didn’t know whether to be grateful for it or to feel vaguely nauseous.

_This is progress_ , he told himself. _This is how it happens. This is what you wanted._

There was part of him that would always be seventeen, fleeing his home for the hope of the city and finding it poisoned with the very same views that drove him away. He took a swig of his whiskey to try and swallow the anger down and nodded along with whatever it was that Arthur was saying.

Gaius rescued him a moment later, tapping him on the shoulder and asking for a moment. Whether he could tell Merlin’s patience was fraying or not, Merlin couldn’t tell, but he was glad of it anyway when Gaius leant in and whispered that Uther was two or three minutes away. They scurried to the entrance hall, Gaius firing off orders to the security teams to prepare for his arrival before adjusting his bowtie as he told Merlin he thought everything would be fine.

Uther made so few public appearances these days, it was impossible for it not to be a big deal. Merlin balled his hands in the pockets of his borrowed suit, watching as guards took their positions above the entrance way and conducted another sweep of the toilets and cupboards, lest any groups with a grudge had decided to take advantage of a rare opportunity. There was no missing the approach of the motorcade, the line of sleek black cars that heralded his arrival in a blaze of flashing lights and radio chatter.

Merlin stood at Gaius’s side as he rocked back on his heels, presiding over the proceedings, watching guards pour out of the cars and pirouette to their positions, eyes scanning for danger before opening the door to the back of the car where Uther was sitting.

He still knew how to make an entrance, shiny shoes hitting the tarmac with purpose, swinging out, accepting the flash of the assembled press’s cameras like it was his birth right. He grinned widely at the sight of Gaius waiting for him on the steps, clasped his hand in both of his, “Old friend,” Uther said. “How good it is to see you.”

“I’m very glad you could make it, sir. You remember Merlin?”

Uther’s gaze was penetrating, and though he smiled, it chilled Merlin all the way through as Uther shook his hand. “A pleasure,” he said, and Merlin nodded, not trusting himself to say anything at all.

Merlin’s old school books were full of tales of Uther’s government and their purge, the way neighbour had turned on neighbour and Uther didn’t stop, even when the prisons were full. He remembered reading the speeches, the polemic about safety and security, the seeping horror under his skin at the knowledge that youth and innocence wouldn’t save him. He remembered too the parties some had held when he lost the election, when Morgause swept to victory, the way that hadn’t comforted him either because even then, he knew they were just swapping one kind of evil for another.

He’d asked Gaius about it, shortly after he came to Camelot. _How could you stand it? How could you work with him knowing he hated everything you are?_

_Better me than someone else,_ Gaius had said. _Better me than someone who agrees with him and will let his agenda run unfettered._

Uther moved off down the hall, greeting members of the party in the same manner, and outside, there was another flash of camera bulbs and shouts to look this way and that.

Morgana emerged from the back of another car, her hair slicked back from her face, dark as the night sky behind her, a shoulderless dress of black silk arranged around her, the front pointing up at her clavicles like a barricade. It flowed to the ground and trailed behind her as she mounted the steps and her gaze fell on Merlin as he took in the fire opals clustered in the hollow of her throat and her crimson painted mouth.

Uther beckoned her forward to meet someone or other, but she nodded and smiled at Merlin as she passed, eyes lingering on his for so long Gaius whispered, “What was that about?”

Merlin swallowed. “Nothing,” he said, which he thought was a perfectly good way to convey that she’d been in his bed every night for a week and yet the sight of her still made his mouth go dry.

The gong banged and the master of ceremonies called out for the guests to take their seats for dinner. Gaius followed Uther and Morgana to make sure they had no trouble finding their places.

In lieu of being able to position himself at her table, Merlin had done the next best thing and plonked himself at Arthur’s but in her eye line, and after Morgana took her seat and introduced herself to the others, she looked over at him and raised her glass.

“How—how did you and Morgana get my father to actually come?” Arthur said, hand on Merlin’s shoulder and a look of utter befuddlement on his face. “Earlier, he told me he had a prior engagement.”

Merlin shrugged.

Arthur dropped into his seat. “You never cease to surprise me,” he said, and Merlin wasn’t sure whether it was his father’s appearance or Merlin’s success in securing it that had knocked the wind out of him.

The first course—tiny piled savoury cakes that smelt of old socks and tasted of fish—passed in a haze of small talk. The others at Arthur’s table were important but boring, and Merlin zoned out through the talk of whether anyone saw the rugby, which bled into talks of mergers and businesses on the brink that might be bought out to the advantage of everyone.

Arthur held his own, although Merlin wasn’t sure where he’d picked up quite so many of the business buzzwords that floated around in place of actual thoughts. Maybe this stuff was just what rich people knew. Maybe they grew up with it or were provided with a dictionary that specifically covered the terms when they came of age.

By the second course, Merlin was genuinely hungry and wolfed down the chicken dish that had been the subject of at least fourteen hours of discussion in the office. Arthur managed to steer the conversation around to his campaign aims, hitting all of the notes they’d rehearsed an infinitum as seamlessly as a musician playing a piece they’d known for a decade, and all Merlin had to do was chip in a few statistics here and there to add context to what he was saying. From the expressions on the face of the couple of the other side of the table and the murmurs of agreement from the woman at his elbow, Merlin surmised things were going well.

A glance at Morgana and Gwen’s table told him their dinner was a less staid affair, Morgana hooting with laughter at something Gwen had said and the Duke’s sons beaming at each other as if they knew they’d lucked out in the seating plan game. Merlin surveyed the rest of the room. Leon was very earnestly saying something to his assembled old clerics while Gwaine was taking a different tack and had a couple of middle aged apothecaries rapt, watching him juggle lemons from the fruit bowl while he tossed out statistics about poverty and access to health care. Over the other side of the hall, Elyan and Percy were in full flow amongst the media types, and Gaius and Uther had their heads together at a table full of art collectors, including Sir Peregrine, who had been the single largest donor so far.

Merlin couldn’t have hoped for better, really. He excused himself to go to the bathroom, and on his way back, he called in at the volunteer station to check on how the donations were doing. When he first started to come to these things with Gaius, it surprised him how low rent the donation mechanism was, that the actual donating happened on the night in the form of cheques or actual wads of cash.

Gaius had told him it was better to strike while the iron was hot, that if they left it until the morning, the people who’d agreed—in a haze of goodwill and even better wine—to offer their support might cool off, think twice about the number of noughts they were adding when they weighed it against a new car or a far-flung holiday. So every place setting had an envelope at it, which was to be filled with a sum in exchange for attendance. Records were kept and those who donated the most were promoted to a better table with more interesting and useful guests next time. A dedicated security team watched the envelopes, collecting them once they had been filled and delivering them to the volunteers to be logged and counted and eventually banked, and ensure that they weren’t swiped by the wait staff or guests who were harder up on their luck than some of the wealthiest attendees.

Tonight’s takings so far exceeded expectations. There had been concern that lacking a named star for the interval entertainment might hamper the speed and size of the donations, but Arthur had been steadfast that they wouldn’t be paying out telephone numbers just for a singer when there were plenty of adequate musicians in Camelot already. Merlin suspected the real issue was he had no idea who any of the suggested names were and he just didn’t want to admit it, but it had worked in their favour anyway. Several of the older guests Merlin had spoken to had been relieved there’d be no _racket_ while they were trying to digest their cheese course.

Merlin headed back into the hall, calling at the bar to order himself a whiskey. He leant on the cool steel top, watching the party reflected in the mirror behind the optics, trying to hide his smile as Morgana got up from her table. He ordered her an Old Fashioned with two cherries and an extra twist of orange. The barman placed it on a napkin in front of him just as she came to a halt at his side, one elbow on the bar as her dress rustled around her.

He slid the drink towards her.

She lifted it and took a sip. “Yours are better,” she said, but she kept hold of the glass and the liquid danced, catching the light the same way the fiery jewels at her neck did.

Merlin wanted to do a lot of things: to see how they felt underneath his tongue, to steal the taste of bitter oranges out of her mouth, to look at her properly without trying to keep everything he felt off his face.

“You look nice,” she said, and she trailed her fingers up over the arm of his dinner jacket. “But then I do like you in a suit.”

“It’s borrowed.”

“Maybe I should get you one of your own, have my tailor make you something that fits properly,” she said, tugging on the folds of fabric bunched at his elbow. “Unless that would make you feel kept.”

Merlin sniffed a laugh. “You really think you could keep me?”

She met his eye. The flicker he could never name was right there between them, and all hint of teasing disappeared. “No, not at all.”

Merlin reached for his drink. “How are the Duke’s sons?”

“Tedious,” Morgana said. “How’s Arthur?”

“Charming,” Merlin said, taking a sip. “Which is also tedious.”

“Well, then. No wonder you wanted a break.”

Morgana’s eyes roved over him and he watched her in the reflection, the way her posture said acquaintances but the look in her eyes said she was thinking about the way his hands felt on her body. “Meet me outside in five minutes?” she said.

He glanced over.

Morgana lifted her glass, tipped it at him, and drifted away, bestowing smiles and hellos at anyone who looked in her direction before slipping through the glazed doors on the other side of the hall that led out to the expansive garden.

Merlin dragged a hand through his hair.

Following would be foolish.

In the confines of his flat, where the only issue to be navigated was Gwaine, that was one thing, but anyone could see them here. The last thing he needed at a function like this so close to the election was a scene because one of the Duke’s sons took it upon themselves to intervene and defend her from the likes of him. On the other hand, the idea of her back against the wall and licking goosebumps off her skin circled through his thoughts. He stared at the ice cubes in his drink as if he might be struggling with the decision, as if he might actually be about to make the sensible one and go back to Arthur.

The garden rolled away from the house like a miniature version of hills in a landscape painting, the trees trimmed into perfect ball shapes and the shrubs carved into ornate swirls. It always blew Merlin’s mind that places like this existed in Camelot, that a stone’s throw away from abject destitution there were places like this, with enough bedrooms and bathrooms to host a small army. The windows threw yellow light onto the ground as he crossed the terrace, checking behind every statue of someone important and pompous looking for a place Morgana might wait for him.

As he rounded the corner of the building, fleetingly he worried she’d been teasing, would laugh at him for taking her seriously.

Even now, when she’d sat on the counter in his ramshackle kitchen accepting pasta sauce from an old wooden spoon and pressed her secrets to the side of his face as a whisper in the dark, he felt wrong-footed, always waiting for something to trip him up. But there she was, hands caught behind her back as she rested against the wall of the library, where Merlin knew the musicians were currently housed before they took to the stage.

She smiled when she saw him and he felt a surge of foolishness for thinking it might’ve been a game.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he said, and rested on the wall next to her, the cold of it a shock to his shoulder and his hip through his rented suit.

“Fancy.”

Inside the party, people were no doubt talking about current affairs, the front pages of the paper, the campaign, all the things Arthur might achieve if he managed to secure victory. It felt a million miles away, as if this tiny moment was reality and all of that was something Merlin had dreamt once.

“Thanks,” he said.

“For what?”

“You know what,” Merlin said. “For getting Uther here.”

“Arthur looked like a startled polecat when he saw him,” she said, lifting her gaze to the heavens.

Merlin followed it with his own.

The night was clear and dark, pinprick stars scattered above them like wildflowers in a meadow. If he’d had another life, other passions, he might know what they were, could pull her to him on the pretence of pointing out a constellation or where they might be able to glimpse a meteor. He’d had his favourites, when he was a kid. Two stars he could see from the bedroom window in the summer. He always felt better when they drifted into view again, and for several summers they’d been his only true companions, the only witnesses as he sat on the windowsill, confessing the deepest desires of his heart to the night. 

“He won’t say so,” Merlin said, “but Arthur appreciates it. I do too.”

“Would you say, then,” Morgana said, turning towards him, slipping close enough to finger the buttonholes of his jacket, “that you owe me?”

“I—” Merlin looked down at where her fingers were toying with the stitching. “Yeah. Sure. Just let me know what I can do for you in return.”

Morgana lifted an eyebrow. “A kiss might be nice.”

Merlin thumbed over her red lip. “Can I?” he said. “I wouldn’t want to smudge you.”

“I chose this lipstick to withstand a five-course dinner Merlin,” she said. “I think it can handle you.”

He smiled as he tilted her chin up and brought her mouth to his. Kissing her was like dissolving, losing every sense of himself until he was nothing but a series of sensations. He grounded himself with his hands on her waist, touching the boning of her dress and trying to imagine what it looked like from the inside, if it was as complex as it felt. But even with that to anchor him, he didn’t quite trust himself not to get carried away and act like he would behind his own bedroom door. He let his mouth dawdle over her cheek and down her neck, lingering in the crook of it and waiting for the familiar shiver as he scraped his teeth over her skin.

He rested against her, breathing shallow and fast, and she pressed her hips into him, making a show of looking down between them. “Hard already?” she said.

“Apparently.” He met her eye. “Maybe you can do something with that later.”

“Are you sure you can wait that long?” she said, fingers skimming the front of his trousers.

“No,” he said. “But I’ve literally no idea how to get you out of this dress.”

Morgana grinned, fingers ghosting over the fabric as she looked up at him with invitation. “What are you doing after the gala?”

“Figuring out how to take this dress off, hopefully,” Merlin said.

She tugged him in by his lapel and this kiss was deeper, made him think about bundling the skirt up over his arms and seeing if they couldn’t figure something out like that, damning to hell all the people who might catch them and the consequences that would follow. He groaned into her mouth as her fingers worked him in maddening strokes, thinking half thoughts about taking the suit back with suspicious stains and if maybe this would be worth the humiliation.

He was most of the way to a bad decision when a burst of applause pulled him out of his thoughts. He turned his head towards the windows of the banquet hall, but he couldn’t see anything from around the corner. Morgana followed his gaze. “The band aren’t supposed to have started yet, are they?” she said.

“Exactly,” Merlin said, taking her hand and scurrying down the wall.

More applause rolled to greet them.

Beyond the window, the guests were almost out of their seats, craning towards the stage. Merlin edged closer, peering in, his nose almost touching the glass, Morgana against his side, her fingers clinging to his as if echoing the tightness in his chest.

They both drew a sharp breath when they saw what was happening.

Uther was on the stage, taking a microphone from one of the stands meant for the band. “He’s not going to—sing?” Merlin said.

The thought was ludicrous, but Morgana didn’t laugh.

“Friends, United Albionists—”

“Oh shit, he’s making a speech,” Merlin said, “did you know he was going to do this?”

“Of course not,” Morgana said.

Inside the hall, people were exchanging glances, trying to work out if this was part of the planned programme or not. Merlin searched the tables for Arthur, eventually locating him at Gwen’s, in Morgana’s seat, his face frozen in a surprised grin that Merlin hoped looked more convincing close up.

“It may be a surprise to some of you that I accepted the invite to be here this evening,” Uther said. “As many of you know, it’s been a turbulent time for our family—”

“We need to get in there,” Merlin whispered, “before he says something that’ll ruin Arthur’s chances.”

Merlin fumbled for the door handle, but Morgana grabbed his hand. “We can’t just—” She shoved him down the wall to a more discreet door at the back of the hall, opening it slowly and slipping through.

She recovered her composure, gliding back to the tables and beckoning Merlin in with a wiggle of her fingers while she leant down and distracted the occupants of the closest table by commenting on a woman’s broach and making a joke about how Uther had never been able to resist the spotlight.

“Arthur announcing his move into politics was at one time a dream of mine,” Uther said. “I thought he had settled on the law, however, and gave up on the idea of him following in my footsteps. Imagine my surprise, then, when—”

Merlin edged in, trying to subtly blend into the curtains as he edged down the wall, around the bar, and back to his table. He slid into his seat and threw a frantic glance over at Gwaine and Leon, Uther’s story about how he found out Arthur was running ringing in his head, turning into increasingly more damaging headlines as each second passed.

Gwaine was the first to meet his eye, gesturing a ‘did you organise this?’ and frowning at Merlin’s mouthed ‘no’. Behind them, the event photographers were having a field day, capturing pictures of Uther as he expounded upon his political legacy, how when he retired, it had been with great sadness, how disappointed he’d been not to have someone to pick up the mantle of his dream.

“Arthur chose to go in his own direction, forge his own path,” Uther said, “as sons with Arthur’s wilfulness are want to do.”

There was a smattering of cooed agreement at the apparent show of fatherly pride. Merlin peered through the crowd to Arthur. His expression remained fixed in a forced smile as if everything was going exactly to plan, but as his side, Gwen was digging her fingernails into his arm, face more of a grimace than the grin she was presumably going for.

“Of course on occasion over the past few years, I wondered if Arthur’s path had taken him a little too far from the fold,” Uther said.

Merlin cringed. This was it, the moment Uther would denounce Arthur’s stance on magical rights. He saw everything they’d worked on crumbling. He wanted to do something, to make it stop, but short of setting fire to something he wasn’t sure what. He shot another frantic glance at Gaius, but he was whispering something to the Sir Peregrine, and when he finally sat back and saw Merlin looking at him, his face was full of so much consternation, it was hard to find comfort in it.

“Which is why,” Uther said, “I was a little slow to welcome the change of direction when I first learnt of Arthur’s intentions.”

Merlin worried at his fingernails.

“From my own time campaigning,” Uther said, “I know how gruelling it can be, how long days bleed into long nights and the decisions to be made seem to double every time one is reached. I know that embarking upon such a campaign takes a great deal of courage, fortitude, and strength, that at times, it seems too much for one person to bear. There are plenty of people here tonight who can attest to how belligerent and quick to snap I became in the run-up to an election.”

A knowing grumble of laughter rolled around the room.

“But this evening is not about me,” Uther said, “alas.” The crowd responded warmly as he finally spread his arms and looked at Arthur. “Please welcome to the stage, my son, the United Albionists candidate, Arthur Pendragon.”

Arthur bounded to the stage, riding the wave of applause even though his speech was scheduled for much later in the evening and the person introducing him was supposed to be Gaius. He had prepared at least ten minutes of material on the ancient history and cultural significance of Camelot, all carefully curated to position Arthur as the latest in a long line of political visionaries.

The planned opening hinged on the idea of grasping the mantle of Camelot’s legacy and the deference he felt about the prospect of being chosen to steward the realm into a new era. Merlin wasn’t sure how well it would work after everything Uther had said. If Arthur shared the panic coiling in Merlin’s veins, however, it didn’t show on his face. He accepted a hand shake and a pat on the back from his father, which turned into a one-armed hug that triggered the various photographers to snap so many pictures they sounded like a swarm of bugs.

Merlin scrubbed a hand over his face, meeting Gwaine’s eye again. Gwaine shrugged and offered him a head tilt and a tentative thumbs up—and he was probably right. A picture of Uther hugging Arthur was more than they could’ve asked for. It would go a long way to dispelling the quietly circling myth that Pendragon Snr was not pleased with the politics of his offspring and curtail any speculation about a rift.

Knowing that didn’t quash Merlin’s anxiety though as Arthur looked out at the room. Merlin imagined him tearing the prepared speech into bits and mentally trying to rearrange them into something usable. He didn’t envy him that task.

Arthur took a deep breath and stepped up to the microphone. “I—am not entirely sure how to follow that,” Arthur said. “A round of applause everyone, please, for the greatest Ruler Camelot has ever known, my father.”

The crowd obliged, although Merlin joined in somewhat half-heartedly, gaze drifting to where Uther was taking his seat again, accepting claps on the back from the old friends Merlin had arranged around him.

“Friends,” Arthur said, “members of the United Albionists—what an honour it is to be here with you this evening. Over dinner, at my table we’ve been talking about all of the things it might be possible to achieve in the coming years, all the hopes and dreams it might be possible to realise—I hope the conversations with your own dining companions have been similarly enriching. I know a lot of effort went into seating everyone with people with whom they might have plenty to discuss.” Arthur glanced at Merlin pointedly, and many of the room followed his gaze and offered Merlin an appreciative nod. “So I don’t want to go over that—over the policy details and the spending plans and the roadmap out of austerity and back to prosperity—I’ve given so many interviews lately, it’s harder to avoid my thoughts on the matter than to encounter them.”

A waft of laughter rolled around the room. Arthur leant into the microphone, a conspiratorial twinkle in his eye as he added, “However if you _have_ somehow managed to dodge the many, many pieces in the popular press, there are plenty of flyers in the foyer for you to help yourself to. I wouldn’t want you to feel left out.”

More laughter, and Arthur waited for it to ripple itself out before adopting a more serious expression. “I want to talk, if I may, about what brought us all together. As I look around this room, I see learned professors like Gaius, I see art collectors like Sir Peregrine, I see archivists like Geoffrey, those who guard and steward our culture, who value knowledge and learning and the preservation of those things so future generations can benefit from them. I see those responsible for keeping the cogs of our society turning—I see business people, I see apothecaries and healers, I see lawyers, and yes, I see politicians like my father—all united by their sense of duty, their belief in community, and their dedication to their profession. I see all these different fields of work, but I think about what unites us. And that’s the wider agenda many here share of a united Albion. What we build in Camelot can form the basis of that dream, become a platform from which we move forward with that goal in mind. I want Camelot to represent the best of all things—to be a place where truth and honesty and integrity flourish, where opportunities are offered to all on an equal basis. I want to create a Camelot that acts like a beacon, the light from which spreads to even the darkest corners of the land and beckons all towards hope.”

Merlin swallowed. Gwaine had written those words pacing around the kitchen, reciting each variation to the wonky cupboards and asking Merlin if each was an improvement on the last. Needless to say, in Arthur’s voice with a rapt audience, they were more affecting.

“So it is with a great sense of honour that I accept the challenge of taking the United Albionists agenda forward and stewarding our shared vision into a new era. If you will please all raise your glasses,” Arthur said, lifting the wine glass he’d somehow thought to take onto the stage with him. “To Camelot, to election victory, and to Albion.”

The room responded, clinking glasses and echoing Arthur’s words, and applause began somewhere at the back of the room.

One by one, people sprang to their feet—Leon and Gwen first, then Gwaine, Percy, Elyan, others at their tables—until the entire room was on its feet, hands held aloft as they cheered Arthur off the stage and back to his seat.

The band had obviously regrouped and followed him on, striking up a rendition of Can You Imagine? It had been all over the radio lately and adopted as something of an unofficial campaign anthem, and the arrangement the band had worked on was upbeat and celebratory enough that even Merlin found it stirring.

Arthur made his way back to the table, accepting pats on the back and stopping to shake the hands being offered to him. He collapsed back into his seat, meeting Merlin’s questioning gaze with a lengthy exhale. “Your guess is as good as mine,” he said, and he helped himself to another glass of wine.

*

Little could compare to the adrenaline of an impromptu speech by Uther Pendragon. Merlin floated between VIPs, exchanging small talk for pledges of additional support and trying to funnel people towards the volunteers who could take their donations. The speech had gone down well among the older party members, it seemed, and Merlin gritted his teeth through a lot of rose-coloured nostalgia about the heydays of their movement, Gwen stepping in more than once to smile and say how Arthur very much agreed about capturing the same energy and whisk Merlin away so they could share eye rolls and dismay.

As people started to gather their things and leave, Merlin headed out there to see where they were with tallying the amounts, collecting Gaius on his way. He was still carrying a drink and looked every inch like a man who needed it, reminding Merlin that of all the people who really wanted to see Arthur succeed, Gaius was the one who’d worked the longest and hardest. Ever since Morgause came to power, he’d been looking for someone who would provide a real alternative, beavering away quietly in the background.

“How’s it looking?” Merlin said, leaning on the counter of the cloakroom, where the volunteers had commandeered the safe to store the donation envelopes.

“Good,” Percy said. “Sir Peregrine still knows how to hustle.”

He barely fit in the cloakroom, but Merlin and Leon had figured they wanted someone who looked like they wouldn’t hesitate to punch even a rich old donor in the face if they tried to steal an envelope for a lark.

The staff began the clear up operation, moving like an efficient single entity as they cleared the tables one by one and dismantled the decorations on the stage. When most of the guests had filed out, Arthur came out to the entrance hall to join them, his jacket slung over his shoulder and the collar of his shirt undone. If that hadn’t been enough to suggest he’d enjoyed several glasses of wine since Merlin last saw him, the way he slouched into one of the marble pillars and very nearly missed it would’ve tipped him off.

“Meeeeerlin,” he said. “Have I told you lately how great this was? All of it. I wouldn’t have thought you could organise your way out of a paper bag, but this—” 

Merlin smiled his reply, scanning the remaining guests for the only one he really cared about seeing. “You seen Morgana?”

Arthur waved the question off.

Now he thought about it, Merlin hadn’t seen her since she helped Uther out to his car. Maybe she left with him. He pictured her waiting on the fire escape outside his flat, dress crumpled as she sat on one of the steps and her shawl pulled tight around her shoulders, a lilting smile as she saw him coming. “Seriously, is she going home with you or did she leave with Uther?”

Arthur seemed to consider it for a moment, before jabbing a finger in Merlin’s direction. “Actually,” he said, “I remember now. I _did_ see her. Like the gentleman I am, I thanked her for her invaluable help.”

“Her help?”

“With the thing with my father. I told her how you knew how important it was ages ago to get the old man on board, how you said you’d fix it, whatever it took. I told her—I made it perfectly clear how it was all your doing, all your work—I even went so far as to say I was impressed with how you played such a long game, how I was wrong not to have faith in you when you said you could persuade her to help us—”

Merlin tried to keep his face neutral, snapping his mouth—that had been hanging open in burgeoning horror—closed. “You did—you did what?”

“—because I should’ve known, shouldn’t I, that you do whatever it takes—whatever is needed to get what we…need. Needed?” Confusion passed across Arthur’s face but he waved it away. “Whatever. Because that’s just who you are. Dogged, I think I said. Merlin’s _dogged_.” Arthur swayed on his feet. “ _And_ I told her not to expect any more free lunches now her usefulness has expired, because your expenses don’t stretch that far.”

Merlin’s stomach sank.

This had the potential to be bad.

Very bad.

The way Arthur made it sound, it was as if the lunches were only to secure her help for the campaign. What if she thought he meant everything else as well?

Merlin scrubbed his hand over his face. “Arthur, why on earth would you say that?”

Arthur grimaced, shaking his head. “Why’d you care what I said to her?”

“I—it’s—I just—” Merlin couldn’t think of a reasonable objection and shot a pleading glance at Gaius.

Gaius leant in, catching Merlin’s arm. “A word, Merlin, if I may? It’s about one of the donations.”

With a polite yet dismissive smile at Arthur, he herded Merlin into the cloakroom and shoved him behind a coat rack full of lost property still awaiting collection. It smelt like moth repellent and settled dust but at least it was relatively private.

“What’s going on?” Gaius said. “You look like you’ve seen a dozen ghosts dancing a tango.”

Merlin would probably prefer that.

In fact, he would definitely prefer that to Morgana thinking he only cared about the campaign and getting Uther to endorse Arthur for the good of it. Is that why he couldn’t find her? Had she left, thinking _that_?

Merlin sank down on a folding chair, dropping his elbows onto his knees and cradling his head. “This can’t be happening.”

“What?” Gaius said. “Merlin, I can’t help if you don’t tell me what it is.”

Gaius had used the same line when Merlin was a teenager, when he’d been dealing with the sting of rejection but not wanted to admit it or when he’d caused minor uproar with a spell that had gone wrong and he needed help covering it up. Merlin thought he was long past the days of needing Gaius’s advice, but apparently not.

“Does this have anything to do with all the glances between you?” Gaius said, lifting one eyebrow. “Or that fact you both disappeared at the same time during dinner and then reappeared together?”

Merlin looked up from between his fingers. “It—might?” he said.

Gaius crouched down in front of him and rested a balled fist on Merlin’s knee. “Merlin, whatever it is, I doubt it’s as bad as you’re making it out to be.”

Merlin took a deep breath. He allowed himself to think for a moment. Morgana knew what Arthur was like, that he’d say anything to taunt her. She wouldn’t just believe him. She wouldn’t throw away all the things they’d done and said over a conversation with Arthur when he was drunk.

“We’ve been… sort of…” Merlin trailed off, wondering what the age-appropriate phrase was. It would’ve been easier to pick one perhaps if he had any idea what they were doing.

It wasn’t dating but it wasn’t just fucking either. It was unspecified. The thought of losing it made him feel like he didn’t have any internal organs anymore. “Morgana and me. We’ve been—seeing each other. Socially.”

Gaius’s face conveyed nothing but confusion.

Merlin sighed. “Romantically.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Gaius said, eyebrows leaping. Understanding dawned across his face. “Oh.”

“Now, thanks to Arthur and his big mouth, she’s going to think I was only doing it to get her to help with Uther.”

“ _Did_ you use her just to get to Uther?”

“Of course I didn’t.”

Gaius rocked back on his heels as if surprised by Merlin’s offended reply. “You must admit, you’ve been very... single minded lately, so it would hardly be—”

“Gaius, you can’t really think I’d do that?” Merlin studied Gaius’s face. He’d thought Gaius would be angered by his lack of judgement, maybe—after all, sleeping with someone who was technically his boss’s sister wasn’t the smartest thing Merlin had ever done—but that he’d think Merlin would do it for any other reason than wanting to, with some kind of ulterior motive, hurt. “I like her. We have a... I don’t know, a connection. We always have had.”

“A connection?”

“She’s the only person I’ve ever met who has magic like mine.”

Gaius’s expression darkened. “You didn’t tell her.”

“No,” Merlin said. “But maybe I should’ve. She feels alone, Gaius. She does things that scare her. If she knew—”

“You can’t say anything.”

“But what if she thinks I used her? What if she thinks none of…the stuff we…you know…was real?”

Gaius considered it carefully, making the same face he used when identifying a rare plant that could either be cure or deadly poison and wondering whether to bring a cutting home. “You can’t tell her about your magic just to gain her trust, Merlin. It’s too dangerous. Need I remind you what happens to anyone with significant magic?”

Merlin ducked his head, staring at the floor between his feet, where a piece of chewing gum was stuck, embedded with a good few years’ worth of dust and grime. He’d grown up with the definition implanted in his head so firmly, it was as if he’d never not known the words. _Significant magic is defined as summoning the elements, power over life and death, the ability to commune with supernatural creatures. Such persons should be reported for containment._

No one knew exactly what happened to people who were contained. There were rumours about caves filled with crystals that robbed sorcerers of their magic, that sent them slowly mad. The tales would be told around campfires and at sleepovers, but little was actually known about what happened to anyone who fitted the definition because such people were extremely rare. Even people like Aithne Bushmaker fell short of it.

Supposedly it was all about safety. And for years Merlin had bought that, had seen the fear in people’s eyes when they talked about powerful sorcerers, had thought that he must be actively dangerous, that it was only a matter of time before he did something beyond conscience. Everything he saw seemed to confirm it: his mother’s anguish any time she thought someone might’ve seen him conjure a breeze to help the washing dry faster; the talks at school about how working for the Magical Defence Programme was the only righteous use of magic and anyone with magic should be honoured to sign up; the posters about rewards for turning in anyone using magic in unsanctioned ways for the good of the community.

Eventually he realised none of it was true. Morgause just didn’t want anyone around who could challenge her, but it was impossible to shake a lifetime of fear whenever he heard the words and thought about the cave that had haunted his childhood nightmares.

“And what if someone else finds out?” Gaius said, more gently. “The press would have a field day. They’d say Arthur’s a puppet of a powerful sorcerer and the real driving force behind the campaign is you.”

Merlin lifted an eyebrow. “Well in a way that’s—”

“Be serious, Merlin. If they find out about you—about you and Morgana—you know what they’ll do. At best, they’ll sling you both in prison or put you to work for Morgause. At worst, they’ll dig up her past—”

Merlin sagged against the harsh metal back of the chair.

“—rehash all the stories from university, make the old rumours front page news for weeks on end. They’ll say Arthur’s campaign is compromised, that the magical rights aspects are your self-interest rather than based in objective evaluation of the ethics and for the good of society.” Gaius’s gaze was so imploring, Merlin could barely stand to meet his eye. “Do you want that? Do you want that for her? You’d be handing Morgause a win, and then what happens to you and everyone you’ve been fighting for all this time?”

“Gaius, I have to do something. I have to see her.”

“Then see her. Tell her Arthur got the wrong end of the stick. But you can’t tell her about your magic, Merlin. We can’t act as if the changes we want to make have happened before we’ve even won the first exit poll.”


	11. Keep calm. During a debate, keep your cool. This makes it more difficult for you opponent to figure out which buttons to press to force an error.

Merlin woke in a cold sweat, the sheets tangled around his legs.

He was alone, and it was surprising, and then not as he remembered why Morgana wasn’t there.

Everything felt wrong.

That was the only way he could describe it.

Wrong. Like he’d fallen out of the life he was supposed to be living—the life he had been living— and into another one, one with uncomfortably sticky skin and a racing pulse prompted by nothing but the contents of his own head and a vague but omnipresent nausea.

Every night for a week—every night since the gala—he’d tried to call Morgana to explain.

Every night, the butler told him she wasn’t taking calls in a pinched tone that said he was enjoying delivering what he knew to be bad news.

Every night, Merlin had gone to bed too late for thinking about it and every night, he’d dreamt of her.

Normally his dreams were vague, fragments of his day and the future and absurdity all spliced together, but these were like the ones he’d had as a child. The ones that felt like more than dreams. The ones that begged him to go to the woods and mumble a certain word, the ones that beckoned him to Camelot and to a job at the Student Union, the ones that made real life—when it caught up with them—feel like deja vu.

He wasn’t even sure dreams were what they were. They pressed on him like a more visceral reality and haunted him long after he woke up, as if they were somehow embedded inside him, fighting their way to the surface when night let his guard down for him.

And these ones were—

He ran his hand over his chest. The taunting warmth of her breath still lingered there, as did the presence of her coaxing fingers around his neck, and against his ear, she whispered: _do you like that, Merlin? Can you take any more?_

He pressed his head back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. Fixating on the damp patch helped him to confirm he was awake, not tucked into the pocket of a dream about waking inside a dream. Not even his imagination would add a damp patch in for granular detail.

His body ached as if she’d really been above him, binding his wrists with magic and tying him to the headboard, covering his eyes and teasing his chest with hot and cold and sharp and tickling sensations, taking him beyond the point of desire to complete cellular exhaustion. He ran his fingers over his wrist, expecting there to be welts from where he’d tugged against the bonds, but the skin was smooth and pale as ever. All it did was remind him what a poor substitute his own touch was for hers and fire a flare of wanting through his stomach.

He tried to focus on things that had really happened. Dark hair against the white of the pillow. Watching her get dressed in one of his old t-shirts, the brush of her mouth on his before she made for the door, the way she laughed when he offered her the toothbrush he’d bought for her to keep in the jar on the sink next to his.

They soothed his heart back to a more normal pace, turned the flare into more of an ache.

He wiped his eyes with the backs of his knuckles, forcing himself to the shower so he could get on with his morning.

*

When he arrived, the office was buzzing, volunteers already on the phone coordinating groups to hand out flyers and talk to people at various places around the city they’d identified as of key importance: food banks, libraries, schools where harassed parents dropped off their kids. Merlin grabbed a coffee, starting when Gwaine thunked an arm around his shoulder.

“Was wondering when you’d get here,” he said. He helped himself to a swig from Merlin’s coffee. “You don’t put nearly enough sugar in,” he said, with a grimace.

“Then get your own?”

“I am far too busy for that, and you will be too as soon as I tell you the news,” he said, and steered Merlin towards their cupboard.

Gwaine’s clipping wall had been freshly updated with coverage of the gala. From three different front pages, Uther and Arthur hugging blared out, while others had shots of Gwen and various activists, including Lancelot, who had gone down extremely well with even the stuffiest party members and she was keen to bring on board full-time. There were plenty of pictures of Morgana too: arriving and laughing and in what looked like serious conversation with Arthur between the pillars of the entrance hall.

Merlin wanted to rip them all down. He turned his back to them instead. “What’s going on?”

Gwaine parked himself on the corner of the desk, folding his arms across the front of a shirt that was open most of the way to his navel. “There’s a rumour,” he said, “that Morgause is going to confirm the debate today.”

“A rumour? From where?”

Gwaine grabbed a copy of a newspaper that’d been folded to the correct page from the desk and handed it over. He’d circled the relevant bit in red biro.

“Mithian gave me the heads up,” Gwaine said. “But it’s come from inside Morgause’s camp. She thinks they’ve leaked it as some kind of intimidation tactic.”

Merlin scanned the text.

_Morgause is thought to believe debate with Arthur Pendragon beneath her, but will acquiesce to the request as a show of good will._

“Good will?”

Gwaine returned Merlin’s scowl with a shrug.

_Sources close to her suggest that Morgause intends to give Arthur Pendragon a fighting chance by not viewing the questions in advance or preparing any answers ahead of the debate, as he’s new to the political arena. One campaign member close to the issue told us: “She wouldn’t want him to embarrass himself.”_

_Another source confirmed this as the official stance, and added that Morgause finds the idea of a debate a distraction from governing. “She would rather her energy be spent on continuing to ensure Camelot’s safety via work on the Magical Defence Programme than arguing over minor policy disagreements with a young pretender.”_

“What bullshit,” Merlin said, tossing the paper onto the desk. “She doesn’t want to debate policy because she’s only got one and everybody hates it.”

Gwaine fished another clipping out from underneath a pile of sandwich wrappers. “It’s in the Mercia Herald too. Same kind of thing. As Arthur isn’t used to the rigours of political debate she’ll go easy on him, only magical defences can save us blah blah etcetera.”

“Anyone who thinks Arthur has limited experience arguing hasn’t met him,” Merlin muttered. “His first words were probably _actually, I think you’ll find_.”

Gwaine murmured his agreement. “I’ve been finalising answers to all the likely questions,” he said. “You want to go over them later?”

“Sure. We should do a run through, too, with Arthur.”

“Like a full mock debate?”

“Absolutely. I’m happy to play the opposition,” Merlin said. At least arguing the toss over things like the budget would allow Merlin to vent some of his frustration.

He spent the rest of the day tweaking Gwaine’s debate text, double-checking the statistics they planned to use, updating all the polling figures so they reflected the current position as well as they could, but all the time Morgana swirled through his thoughts, the places where he’d felt her fingertips burning all over his body.

It was almost six when the phone rang and Leon ducked his head through the door. “She’s announced it. Exclusive interview in the Albion Mail tomorrow morning.”

“Took her time,” Merlin muttered. But he couldn’t deny the audacity was impressive, to make everyone wait all day and then make the announcement in such a way that it guaranteed wall to wall coverage. It’d bump the piece Gwaine had been working on about Gwen’s wedding plans off the front pages, that was for certain.

“I’ll see if I can get an early copy of the interview,” Gwaine said, already reaching for the phone. “Bill over there owes me a favour.”

As he punched in the number, Merlin leant back on his chair, rubbing at his wrist.

It’d take Gwaine an hour, maybe, to get an early copy sent over from the printer. A week of disturbed sleep had left Merlin frayed at every edge and the thought of waiting that long chaffed at him. They’d all have to bed in for the night as it was, put together a strategy for how to respond to whatever it was she’d said. He rubbed at his eyes until he saw spots in every colour, telling himself this was it. This was what he’d been working towards—he couldn’t afford to waste this chance. He needed to focus. He needed the only thing in his head to be the campaign and the debate and how they were going to win.

One way or another, he needed to be rid of the cloud of Morgana that had been following him everywhere.

“I’m going to go and get us all some food,” he said, pushing to his feet. “It’s going to be a long night.”

Gwaine nodded, biting on a pencil, the phone cradled against his ear as Merlin grabbed his jacket. “Nothing too greasy,” he said. “I need to stay sharp.”

The group of Druids and other supporters outside were all talking about the interview as Merlin passed. A few tossed questions his way about if Arthur was really prepared to debate her—had he considered how he’d respond to questions about whether the Magical Defence Programme would remain and what would happen to all those jobs if it didn’t—and Merlin waved them off with a line about how it was all in hand and how much they appreciated the support and Leon would be out in a bit to see if anyone wanted some tea.

*

The street was empty, aside from a few diners in expensive accessories hurrying to reservations at Milk and Honey. The lights were on at Pendragon house, including those in Morgana’s room, but Merlin couldn’t make out anything going on behind the gauzy curtains. His footsteps echoed on the steps as he jogged up them and he knocked on the door before he could change his mind. He jiggled on the spot as he waited what seemed like an age for the door to open.

“Good evening, sir,” the butler said. “How may I assist you?”

His gaze raked Merlin’s scruffy hair, but whatever scathing comment he was making internally didn’t cause his expression of mild disdain to become the full thing. Merlin couldn’t tell if the man recognised him and was pretending not to or if he hadn’t registered as worthy of remembering the last time he was here. Just in case, he said, “I work with Arthur. He’s going to be at the office all night. He asked me to get a folder he left in his suite?”

“I’m afraid I can’t permit you to wander in off the street and rummage through Mr Pendragon’s belongings.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Merlin said, with a suitably affronted expression, “but he said you might be kind enough to fetch it for him if I described it and its location precisely. The folder is that sort of beige-y buff colour—on the front it says ‘Crisis Management Plan’ and inside you’ll see several reams of paper about fortifications to Camelot’s defences and a big…sort of… map. He thinks he left it on his desk but he couldn’t quite remember and said it might be prudent to check his bedside cabinet too.”

The butler’s nostrils flared and Merlin did his best servant-to-servant smile. He had no idea if Arthur had either a desk or a bedside cabinet, but given the size of Morgana’s room, he figured it was a safe enough bet that something would fit the description. Until the door had opened, he hadn’t been sure which way to play it, whether to don a disguise or not, and he fixed his face into an expression as bland and blank as possible.

“Very well,” the butler said. “Perhaps you’d like to wait in the blue room.”

He indicated a door off the hall with a sweep of his hand, and obligingly Merlin trotted inside. Beyond the door was a vast drawing room, with a piano in one corner and a couple of sofas in front of the windows. Merlin pretended to stare at the paintings of Arthur’s ancestors who decorated the walls. “Wow, Arthur wasn’t joking when he said—” He squinted to make out the inscription on the brass plaque beneath a particularly ugly oil painting. “—aunt Hilda was the spitting image of Uther in a ruff.”

The butler forced a smile and departed.

Merlin gave him a minute before edging back to the door and checking the corridor. The only occupants were the statues, so he tiptoed across the floor, sticking close to the walls in the hope he could duck behind one of the busts to hide if he needed to. He remembered the way to Morgana’s room as if it had been etched permanently into his synapses, but it was still something of a surprise to make it all the way there without being caught.

He paused at the door, going over what he wanted to say, but he couldn’t afford to wait too long in case Arthur genuinely had a folder matching the description Merlin had given inconveniently stashed in his bedroom. He took a deep breath and pushed the door open, closing it quietly behind him as Morgana said, “Merlin?”

She’d apparently been reading on the sofa nearest the fire, and shot up, letting the book slide from her lap. “What on earth are you doing, barging in here without an invite?”

“I wouldn’t have had to barge in anywhere if you’d answered a single one of my calls,” Merlin said.

She looked tired, and the grey jumper she was wearing almost matched the colour of her skin. At her scowl, he added, “I had to see you. I wanted to explain.”

Morgana looked at him, and for a second Merlin would’ve sworn she softened, that she was pleased to see him, before she stowed that away and stormed over. “How dare you just—” She reached for the doorknob, but Merlin dodged in front of it, letting it dig into his arse as he covered it. “Get out of the way, Merlin.”

“Just—just listen for a moment,” Merlin said, holding his hands out in supplication. “Just one minute.”

Morgana stuck her chin out. “Mr Stewart,” she called, “there’s someone in my—”

“Morgana—” Merlin’s voice came out more pleading than he’d intended, but it made something flicker in her gaze, and she looked at him and waited.

Merlin had rehearsed the conversation a hundred times in his head. Every ring of the phone, he’d gone over it, every pause before the butler told him she wasn’t taking calls, it had hung there, what he was going to say:

_It’s not how it sounded. It wasn’t just about Uther—it wasn’t about Uther at all, not really. You know what Arthur’s like, especially when he’s drunk. He just wanted to wind you up._

“I know what you think I did,” Merlin said.

“Oh, so now you’re a mind-reader as well as an impudent fool?”

Merlin hesitated. He’d expected her to at least give him a chance, for there to be an opportunity for him to say _you know how I feel about you. I think this could be something, I think we could be something._ He wasn’t sure what to do with this, with this spikey, prickly feeling pushing up from the bottom of his stomach. He grasped for thought, for logic, for an argument that would be compelling, but all there was was panic. “You think I used you.”

“It’ll be a cold day in hell before anyone gets the better of me, let alone _uses_ me, Merlin,” she said, hands balling at her sides and her eyes flashing with anger as she spat out the word. “I’m sorry you’re having trouble dealing with rejection, but I’ve moved on. One of the Duke’s sons was actually very charming. We’re having dinner tomorrow, as a matter of fact. I’ll make sure there’s a photo.”

There was no time for him to say anything else, for any of his practiced arguments to persuade her.

She met his eye and the same crackle that had always been there fired through Merlin’s body. Only this time, it wasn’t promise and invitation; it was pain wrapped in rage. It felt as if she’d blown him across the room and smashed him into a wall.

Merlin gasped for breath, head flooded: Morgana and a man with mousy hair, her raking her fingernails down his back and him pawing at her as he sucked on her neck.

Merlin screwed his eyes shut, trying to force something else in there too—the layout of his childhood bedroom, the forest he used to play in, the last conversation he had with Gwaine about the debate, anything—but it was like his thoughts weren’t his anymore and all he could do was stand, lungs heaving, and watch. He saw Morgana and this faceless man in dozens of iterations, Morgana arching with pleasure above him or on her knees in front of him, in a bed and against a tree and here, in her bath with the sunlight on her hair, just like it had been in reality.

He opened his eyes and forced himself to look at her, even though it made them burn like staring directly at the sun on a hot day.

A sadistic grin crooked Morgana’s mouth.

“It was you,” he said. “The dreams.”

But he didn’t need her to confirm it.

He could feel it.

Magic radiated off her. It was the elemental kind he’d experienced in sacred places where he’d snuck to practice calling on the wind and summoning rain, the kind that made every hair on his body prickle with alarm when he went too far and touched something he wasn’t ready for.

She had all that at her fingertips.

And she wanted to pull him apart with it.

“Stay out of my head,” Merlin said, and he focused on the feeling of the ground, of the swell of power he knew dwelt below all things, calling it up through his body. “Or I’ll start playing in yours.”

“Promises, promises Merlin,” she said, and this time Merlin felt the spell coming.

He blasted her so hard with pure energy that she staggered backwards, clutching at her stomach, her grip on his mind faltering to nothing in surprise.

Merlin turned and yanked the door open before she could regroup, sprinting down the shiny hall floor so fast he skidded at the corner and had to haul himself around it by grabbing for one of the busts. Arthur’s relatives flashed past and somewhere behind him, a couple of vases that probably cost a small fortune exploded, sending puffs of dust into the air and raining down again as shards.

“Who are you, Merlin?” Morgana called. “Who are you really?”

Her voice echoed down the hall in Merlin’s wake, spikey and hungry, as if it was trying to claw its way inside him.

Merlin focused on the front door.

Once he was outside, she’d be unlikely to do anything more for fear of being seen by the neighbours. At least that was what he was counting on. He scrambled towards it, hooking his fingers around the curved banister on the stairs and using it to propel himself at it.

Somewhere above, the butler appeared, shouting about what on earth was going on. Merlin collided with the front door as Morgana’s footsteps sounded, slow and steady, on the hallway he’d just fled. He grappled with the brass doorknob and wrenched it open.

Fresh air hit him and the ceiling shook. He stumbled down the steps, looking back over his shoulder. The ceiling cracked, plaster dust turning the air to a fog that obscured the doorway, it and her fury clinging to his clothes as he sprinted away.


	12. Employ pathos (arguments that appeal to emotion). Establish your credentials and check ahead of time that your opponent is not more experienced than you.

_ Camelot Chronicle, May 7 _ _ th _

_Tonight’s debate between High Priestess Morgause and United Albionists candidate Arthur Pendragon has been a long time coming. For months, the Pendragon campaign has pushed for a free and honest exchange of ideas in order to give voters a real impression of what and who they’re voting for, with Morgause refusing at every turn. In her eyes, the values and policies of her government are all around us and need no explaining or defending._

_The debate will follow a stringent set of rules, with questions posed by carefully vetted members of the public and each participant then given two minutes to answer, followed by a minute to rebuff the other’s argument. The questions will be agreed in advance by teams from both parties, and are expected to cover a range of topics, from worker’s rights to spending plans and immigration law. Arthur Pendragon is perceived to have a distinct advantage on the latter, having won a series of high profile cases on the matter, while Morgause may well make up ground when talking about relations between Camelot and Cenred or Odin._

_I headed out onto the streets of Camelot to see what the mood ahead of the debate is like._

_Apothecary John Pewter told me he’s looking forward to it. “I’ve seen Pendragon speak before,” he said. “He just gets better and better.”_

_Alice Tollpuddle, who was sporting a Pendragon badge when we met, agreed. “It’s about time someone challenged Morgause and stood up for us little people,” she said._

_Across the city, the picture repeats. Open supporters of the government are few and far between these days, although the Pendragon team are said to be mindful of the polls which show Arthur Pendragon with a lead, knowing that the status quo may prove more appealing once people are alone with their ballot paper._

_Arthur Pendragon’s success tonight may rest on his ability to keep his head in the game. It’s been a tough week for him personally, with what authorities called a “minor explosion” at his home last week. Neither Arthur nor Uther Pendragon were home at the time, but his half-sister Morgana Pendragon was. She is said to have been in a wing of the property far away from where part of the ceiling collapsed and was treated only for shock. Neighbours reported clouds of smoke and a “strange feeling”, with two staff being treated for their injuries._

_Arthur himself has declined to comment on the incident, saying only that he was glad no one was badly hurt and sending well-wished and flowers to the staff._

_While the timing might not be ideal, Arthur’s team have been keen to assure journalists all week that he’s eager to get on with the debate and take that momentum straight to the polling booth._

_The debate airs on Radio Camelot live, tonight at 8pm._

_Gwaine Green is a columnist for the Camelot Chronicle._

Merlin paced outside the studio. “It’s fourteen percent not seventeen,” he said, waving his notes in Arthur’s general direction. “You said you had this all down.”

“And I do,” Arthur replied. “Can you stop doing that? You’re making me nervous.”

Merlin halted, but everything inside him felt shaken up, like he was a can of soda that had just tumbled out of the vending machine outside the green room and now sat on a desk, waiting for an unsuspecting person to pop the lid. “Let’s just go over it one more time. Arthur, what is your plan to replace the jobs lost by the dismantling of the Magical Defence Programme?”

“According to our research, around sixty-four percent of people currently employed by the programme could be offered a lateral shift—”

“Don’t say lateral,” Gwaine said, without looking up from his clipboard. “Say sideways move.”

“What’s wrong with lateral?” Arthur said.

“It just makes you sound up yourself,” Gwaine said, and gestured for Arthur to carry on.

Arthur’s jaw clenched. “Around sixty-four percent of those currently employed by the programme could make a _sideways_ move into careers with a similar skill set. Our plan—which is fully costed—creates around 1100 new jobs in education, healing, and public service and the hiring process will allow anyone previously employed in magical defence to be fast-tracked. We estimate around twenty percent of workers, those who’ve primarily been working in weaponry and defence manufacturing, could fill currently open vacancies in food production, water supply, and other utilities, where their skills will be very welcome. The remaining fourteen percent of workers will be offered retraining, and all will be able to access educational opportunities at Camelot University, free of charge.”

Gaius hit the button on his stop watch. “Under thirty seconds,” he said. “You can afford to pause for emphasis.”

Arthur nodded, looking down at the carpet and blowing air at his feet. Gwen, who’d been leaning on the glass partition between the green room and the radio studio, reached across and rubbed his arm. “You’re going to do brilliantly,” she said, and Arthur smiled and leaned in to kiss her on the top of her head. “You know all of this. You could do this in your sleep.”

“See that?” he said, to the rest of them, “that’s what you call supportive.”

“Just imagine we’re arguing about it over breakfast,” Gwen added.

Leon shuffled the papers he was cradling against his chest. “Maybe we should all take a br—”

The door opened and Morgause’s security swept into the room. They were dressed identically and without a word, they checked every nook and cranny, pulling out the shabby sofa and the bin as if some kind of assassin might be hiding between the stains and dust bunnies. 

They nodded at each other, beckoning to someone outside, and a third guard stood to one side, revealing Morgause behind him. She surveyed them all with a cold, imperious stare, her spine so straight you could probably iron on it.

Merlin had heard she had such a deep, visceral magic she could remove a person’s stomach from two realms away, and standing there, he could absolutely believe it. The air was almost stifling with the presence of her magic, but he supposed that was what happened when you were the only person in the country who didn’t have to watch how their magic might be perceived and could use it any time—and anyhow—you liked.

“Arthur Pendragon,” she said. Arthur stepped forward, his hand extended, and Morgause looked at it with confusion. “I am Morgause,” she said. “And of course you know my special advisor, Morgana.”

She gestured beyond the door to where Morgana stood, clad in a blood red suit, her hair swept up into a sleek knot and her eyes hidden behind her sunglasses.

At Merlin’s side, Gwaine muttered, “ _Shhhhit._ ”

Merlin was glad of the distraction of stepping on his foot so his heart didn’t hammer itself all the way out of his ribcage.

“We just wanted to wish you luck,” Morgause said, and with an icy smile, she turned on her heel and left the way she’d come.

They all watched as her team swarmed into the studio, checking the equipment for who knows what while she oversaw them with calm, eviscerating stare. Her security moved with such practiced precision, for the first time since he started this entire thing, Merlin understood what they were up against. Organising a bunch of Druids with placards was one thing; bringing down an actual government like this one was something else entirely. Every single one of his efforts suddenly seemed inadequate and the image of Morgana blinked behind his eyelids like a siren.

“Well that was…what was that?” Leon said, looking from face to face with utter bafflement.

“Sobering?” Gwen offered. “Anyone else suddenly feel like a nine-year-old running for class president?”

“Nine?” Gwaine said. “More like two.”

“Oh come on,” Arthur said. “She’s no more frightening than any other opposing counsel. They all do this sort of thing. It’s nothing to worry about.”

Leon shifted from foot to foot as if he definitely disagreed but would rather die than say so and Gaius met Merlin’s eye, his brow furrowed. Merlin knew what he was thinking, or suspected that he did: Morgana joining Morgause was not good news.

“Did anyone know about Morgana?” Gwen said. “I spoke to her yesterday and she didn’t say a thing. Merlin—you’re close to her, aren’t you? Did she give any hint she was thinking of—”

Merlin shook his head.

Words seemed completely beyond him. Up until that very second, he’d believed she’d spent the last few days holed up in the Pendragon mansion, that it would take time but eventually she’d calm down. The fantasy he’d had about talking to her, reasoning with her, dissipated like smoke on a breeze.

“She would do anything to wind me up,” Arthur said. “She’ll get bored of this in a day and a half, mark my words.”

Merlin wished he could believe that, but the more pressing problem was how to get through the next hour. Unlike Morgause’s ancient, pitiless magic, Morgana’s was fresh and ferocious and above all else, volatile.

Suddenly, for all the inspections and precautions, the radio studio looked entirely too flimsy for Merlin’s liking. He’d been lucky last time _and_ in the debating chamber. There had been injuries but no one had actually been killed. If they brought the radio studio down around them, not only would several different cats be out of the bag in the most public way imaginable, almost everyone Merlin cared about was in harm’s way. 

“Anyone want a tea?” Merlin said. “Gaius?”

Gaius looked startled by the suggestion, but at Merlin’s jerk of his head towards the door, he said that sounded most agreeable and followed him out to where the vending machine flickered in the dim light of the corridor.

“I don’t like this, Gaius,” Merlin said, once they were out of earshot. He’d given Gaius a somewhat potted version of what had happened at the Pendragon house and they’d spent every night since in Gaius’s study, reading up on defensive spells and protection charms. Merlin cursed himself for not bringing any of the talismans and crystals Gaius had given him with him, but showing up with Morgause was the last thing he expected Morgana to do.

“Nor I.”

“What are we going to do?”

Gaius drummed his fingers on his mouth. “Arthur’s probably right. She came to rattle him. You know how they both enjoy stoking the animosity between them. I doubt she’s actually formed an alliance with Morgause in any real sense, and besides—there’s not much she can do live on national radio.”

Merlin pressed his lips together. “Morgana’s powerful, Gaius,” Merlin said. “She was inside my head—if she can do it to me, she can do it to Arthur.”

Gaius didn’t seem particularly surprised by the revelation, nodding slowly. “You’ll have to be vigilant,” he said. “If she tries that during the debate, can you stop her?”

“Possibly.”

Merlin gnawed at his lip, turning various spells through his mind since blasting her with energy and bringing the creaking radio studio down around them was off the cards. He wished he’d had more chance to practice, but doing so without revealing himself to anyone was a problem he had yet to solve. Both times he and Morgana had fought, he’d had to rely on instinct. It was a blunt instrument and hard to control, relying more on the ability to draw power than the skill of wielding it.

“I don’t know if I’m strong enough,” Merlin said, leaning in closer. “Ever since I saw her at the house—or before that, really—I’ve felt—weird. Wrong. Like there’s something wrong with me, deep inside. She—she did something to me. More than the head stuff.”

Gaius studied him, taking the words in.

Merlin knew it wasn’t the time to bring it up, that what Gaius needed was him to rise to this challenge and just take care of it, but now he was giving voice to the feelings that had been churning him up, he couldn’t stop them flowing from his mouth. “I feel sick all the time, Gaius, and—I don’t know. Hollow. I feel hollow and empty and like…I don’t know. Just not like myself. I was going to wait until tonight was out of the way and then come and see if you could give me something for it.”

Gaius’s appraising look managed to be both full of sympathy and disappointment. “You’re not sick, Merlin,” he said. “You’re in love with her.”

Merlin rocked back on his heels.

As a reason for the way he’d been feeling, it seemed at once too small and gargantuan in its implications. The thought settled over all of his others like a blanket, but there wasn’t time to digest the idea any further because Leon was herding Arthur out of the green room towards them. “Five minutes,” he said.

They passed in a blur.

Morgause and Arthur took their positions inside the studio, settling in behind microphones with their names on. The host—who was a colleague of Elyan’s—shook both of their hands and reminded them of the rules, pointing out a comically oversized clock that would be reset with their time allocation after each question from a caller.

They were informed they could all watch from outside, and the teams divided: Arthur’s, with Gwen nibbling her nails and Leon compulsively rearranging his hair, on the left-hand side of the glass wall; Morgause’s posse in their identikit uniforms on the right. Merlin stuck to the wall, keeping Morgana in sight, but if she noticed him watching her, there was no sign of it.

A photographer ducked inside the studio, taking shots of Morgause and Arthur at the microphones and a couple more from across the desk behind the host’s head before retreating to the corner to capture action shots throughout. It had taken two days to get Morgause’s team to agree to it, with it eventually coming down to Gwaine bringing a camera to the studio and demonstrating for Morgause’s team how rubbish pictures taken through the partition would look.

It seemed a million miles away now. Merlin longed for the cosy security of his cupboard office, when the actual business of this was still distant, theoretical, entirely abstract, but he had to admit to himself that the thing he really missed was the tingle of promise he’d experienced at the end of each day, when he’d bundled up work to take home and known Morgana would meet him there.

Gaius wasn’t right. Sharing dinner and telling her about his day and falling into bed with her didn’t mean he was in love with her.

The red on-air light lit up.

Inside the studio, the host started her patter about the debate and the rules and how happy she was that they’d both decided to participate in a free and frank exchange of ideas.

In the reflection of the glass, Morgana sidled towards him and her perfume wrapped around his throat like it was trying to choke him.

“Hold on tight, Merlin,” she said. “It’s going to be a bumpy ride.”

*

The office was full to bursting, even though it was almost midnight.

Leon perched by the front door, obsessively checking the street for the runner who’d bring the morning’s papers hot off the press as soon as they were available, and Gwaine and Gaius went over each of Arthur’s debate answers, both of them offering predictions about what the real talking points would be in the next few days and how they should deal with each scenario.

In Arthur’s office, the mood was jubilant, Gwen and her activist friends crammed in there celebrating the issues they’d fought so hard to draw attention to finally being on national radio.

“Did you hear her non-answer on child poverty?” Gwen said.

“The way Arthur laid out the conditions so plainly,” Lancelot said, “we truly could not have asked for more.”

“Regardless of the outcome of the election, that was a win. Just think,” Gwen said, opening another bottle of cheap wine and decanting it into paper cups, “all over Camelot people know now that someone cares. That someone heard their cries for help. That they matter.”

Lancelot lifted her clean off her feet and spun her around before someone started chanting _Arthur, Arthur, Arthur!_

In his cupboard, Merlin tossed back another headache potion. He was definitely on the wrong side of the suggested dosage but none of the previous three had so much as dented the raging inside his skull. His own thoughts bounced like rubber balls on concrete, rebounding too quickly to catch and hold onto. Everything he tried to think mingled with the images Morgana had attempted to flood Arthur’s psyche with, and he winced as they flashed one after the other as if they were printed on his eyelids.

On the wall opposite him, Morgana still smiled out from the press clippings. Merlin walked over to stand in front of them, trying to fit the way he’d felt dancing with her with the way he felt tonight.

The things she’d sent towards Arthur to try and throw him off were twisted and cruel—Uther in agony and Arthur’s dead mother rising paper-thin from a grave to scream how disappointed she was in him, his friends and fiancé lying scattered about the office they now celebrated in like broken dolls. Merlin had scooped them all up and held them firm, even though doing so made his hands shake and his spine want to leave his body and a scream try to force its way out of his mouth. 

Merlin pinched the bridge of his nose. The blaze of camera flashes as they’d all left was at least partially responsible for his head, searing at his eyeballs so badly he’d stumbled and Gwaine had to manhandle him into the car.

After months of thinking about little else, he could barely remember the debate itself.

Every time he switched his focus from blocking Morgana’s mind games to what Morgause or Arthur was saying, magic swept around the room, so severe and turbulent it took all he had to contain it. He flexed his wrists, rubbing over the spot where his mind was still convinced there should be a wound, no matter how many times he looked at it and showed it there wasn’t anything there. He knew Arthur had landed a few blows because Morgana had reacted to them. He was pretty sure Arthur had nailed the statistics about reemployment for everyone on the Magical Defences Programme and if he’d fumbled anything—as Morgause was presumably banking on him doing—Merlin could read about it in the papers, where they’d break it down in minute detail.

At the doorway, Leon stood to attention. “They’re here!”

Everyone crammed around Leon at once, hands snatching for the different titles, dragging the papers to corners of the room to dissect. The excited clamour dropped away almost immediately, replaced by looks of surprise and consternation.

“What?” Merlin said, from his position at the cupboard doorway.

Gwaine held up the Camelot Telegraph. On the front was a giant picture of Arthur on the steps of the radio station. Behind him, glaring a glare that could explode a planet at the back of his head, was Morgana, arms linked with Morgause. The headline blared out across two thirds of the page in fat, accusatory red:

_PENDRAGONS AT WAR_

Merlin snatched the paper out of Gwaine’s hands, skimming the text. _SHOCK as Morgana Pendragon joins campaign for Morgause. Our EXCLUSIVE take on how this spells disaster for Arthur and Gwen INSIDE._

“How are the others?” Merlin said, more in hope than expectation.

“Calling it a ‘surprise switch of allegiance’ over here in the Chronicle,” Gaius said. “Our friends there have done us a favour.”

“Has Morgana secured victory for Morgause,” Percy called, with a note of apology as he held up the Albion Mail.

Leon’s face was crestfallen as he handed his to Arthur. “Herald have gone with: debate forgotten as Pendragon sibling rivalry rips campaign wide open.”

Arthur met Merlin’s eye. It was too much to bear, and Merlin ducked his head and buried himself in flicking through the pages of the Telegraph to the actual article, Arthur frantically doing the same with the Herald.

“There’s no mention of the debate,” Arthur said. “No mention of the policies or the issues or—”

“Everyone listening will know how it went,” Leon said. “Arthur, you wiped the floor with her.”

“What about everyone who wasn’t listening?”

Merlin balled his fist in his hair. It was a valid point and he knew it. The entire reason for the debate was to give the actual issues an airing in public, to take them out of the realm of things only people who followed politics cared about and into every conversation at every bar and table top and workplace canteen in Camelot. If no one was reporting it, all that effort, all that badgering and manoeuvring, all of the revisions and analysis of what would play, all of it had gone to waste.

“The polls still say—”

“Screw the polls, Merlin,” Arthur said, “this is every front page in the entire land!”

It was almost a relief for the anger Merlin felt to be reflected back at him. He stood, head pounding, and watched Arthur’s nostrils flare. “I’ll fix it.”

“How?! The election is less than a week away.”

Merlin looked across the room at Gwaine. He pursed his lips and dragged air in through them, and for a split second, Merlin thought Gwaine was going to throw in the towel and admit they’d been beaten, that Morgana had waited for the last possible moment and then fucked all their plans with a single move.

“Blanket coverage,” Gwaine said, gesturing at Arthur. “You and Gwen—you and your father—you and anyone who’s even vaguely noteworthy. Call Montgomery and Grant. Have a catch-up lunch, see how they’re doing. I want pictures of you at food banks and giving tea to protesters—I want to see you out in the sticks knocking on doors and walking the streets of Camelot talking to anyone who wants to speak to you. I want to know about the wedding, the stag night, the mood after the debate—I want it all in excruciating amounts of detail. If you so much as breathe, I want a photographer there to cover it.”

Arthur glanced between him and Merlin. “That’ll work, will it?”

Merlin nodded.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gaius clamping his hands to his sides so they didn’t rise to fiddle with his bowtie. “They’re right,” Gaius said. “This will be tomorrow’s chip paper, so long as we don’t panic and pour fuel on this particular fire.”

Gwaine reached for a marker pen and pulled the lid off with his teeth, flipping the substantial sheet of paper on the flipchart over.

As Gwaine doodled out a plan for every day between now and the election, some of the others poured out onto the street, clutching their paper cups of wine and talking about how it didn’t really matter, that they’d already done so much work, that this Morgana thing would blow over in a couple of days and Arthur was probably right about her getting bored.

Merlin stared at the calendar, moving things around so they could hit strategic priorities, focusing on setting up photo shoots in areas where they weren’t well represented and voters were on the fence. “We’ll hit the grassroots last,” he said, thinking they could always bump those if they needed to as the voters in certain areas would vote for Arthur whether he pandered to them or not.

But even as he honed the plan, another thought unfurled in his head, the poisonous kind that once thought wouldn’t roll back up again.

Around 3am, most people left, yawning at their watches as they calculated how few hours it was until they were supposed to be back here, fresh eyed and ready for the last push. Arthur had bid Gwen goodnight more than an hour ago, bundling her into a taxi with a mumbled promise not to wake her when he came in and a kiss, and now he, Merlin, Leon and Gwaine were the only ones left.

There was a somewhat beleaguered spirit permeating the room and Merlin imagined this might be how generals who’d just been through a battle only to find themselves still outflanked by their enemy would feel, knowing there was still more to do and the victory they thought they might’ve clinched was like ashes in their mouth.

“Anyone for a pastry?” Gwaine said, stretching his arms behind his back. “Baker’ll be open in ten.”

“I could go a coffee,” Leon said. “And maybe some fresh air?”

Gwaine wrestled him out of the door with an arm around his shoulder, chattering about how nice it was to have someone to pull an all-nighter with for a change.

The office was even quieter and more full of despair without them.

Arthur considered the calendar, fingers resting against his mouth. “It’s a lot of moving about,” he said.

“Gwaine thinks we need the coverage, local stuff as well as national,” Merlin said. “And he’s been right so far.”

Given the schedule they were about to embark upon, Merlin was unlikely to get a better opportunity than this to talk to Arthur alone. “It’s not all we could do,” Merlin said, lowering his voice even though there was no-one else here to hear him. “There is…an option we haven’t talked about.”

Arthur folded his arms across his chest. “Go on.”

“There’s always—you know.”

“I don’t, Merlin. I’m a study of not knowing what the hell you’re talking about.”

Merlin steadied himself, still shaky from his headache or the potions he’d consumed to deal with it, he wasn’t entirely sure which. “The stories about Morgana from university,” he said. “We could allow them to resurface and discredit her. Then any opposition to her makes you look rational and sensible, while Morgause allowing her to continue on her campaign would make her look like a hypocrite.”

It sounded worse out loud than Merlin had expected it to.

The way Arthur was looking at him—it was like Merlin had suggested some kind of complicated and definitely illegal ritual involving group nudity, some kind of animal blood, and days of chanting.

“You want me to hang my own sister out to dry in the press?” Arthur said.

Merlin shifted on his feet.

Gaius’s words wove themselves through his thoughts. _You’re in love with her, Merlin._

“I wouldn’t say I wanted that,” Merlin said. “It’s just—it’s an option. It’s my job to tell you what the options are. It’d be remiss of me not to even mention it as a possible course of action when it might solve a lot of our problems.”

In the pause while Arthur considered it, Merlin wondered what his old self, the one who served pints in the student union and made Morgana cocktails, would think if he could see this conversation. He wasn’t even sure what he thought about himself for suggesting it, for even having the thought in the first place.

“All it would take is a suggestion of where to look and what for, a bit of digging around. The rest would take care of itself.”

“What if someone finds out it’s us?” Arthur said.

“Gwaine can be subtle when he needs to be.”

“No,” Arthur said. His face said it was his final decision, that there’d be no more discussion on the matter. “Whether I’m going to win or lose, I want to do it fair and square.”

Merlin couldn’t tell whether or not he was relieved by the answer. He rummaged in Leon’s desk for another headache potion, waiting for Gwaine to bring him a coffee to wash it down with and hoping they wouldn’t both live to regret it. 


	13. Explain your reasoning.  Take people through your thought processes. This forces them to think in a similar way to you and accept your argument.

_ Camelot Chronicle, May 15 _ _ th _

_Why I’m voting for Arthur Pendragon (and you should too)_

_The first time I went into a voting booth, I’d just turned 18. My father was recently deceased, a casualty of a war he didn’t believe in that solved nothing for no one, my mother distraught at the loss of him and the sudden influx of burdens. Life as I knew it had disintegrated, like a soggy paper towel in a gale. I was angry in the particular way only an 18-year-old can be, ready to flee for the first bad idea that would have me._

_That the election coincided with personal turmoil may account for why I pored over campaign leaflets, looking for a cause that would both echo my rage and tell me everything would be ok in the end. I dissected the candidates’ manifestos, arguing with each of them in my head and with their supporters in person on occasion, whittling the candidates down until one of them best fit the vision of a liveable existence I had been crafting._

_This was how I launched my adulthood._

_The pencil on a string felt like a weapon. My ability to strike a cross with it against a name felt like welding a staff of judgement and justice, the responsibility of it not detached from the bitterness I felt for the incumbent who’d made life hell for my family with poor decisions and reckless disregard for the people who’d have to implement them. Voting was, for me, not about backing a winner but affirming my support for someone whose ideals I respected. It was less about power and who I thought should wielded it on my and everyone else’s behalf and more a discreet nod of solidarity._

_Since then, few elections have held the same weight for me, but I still enter into them with the same mentality. I want to put my cross against the name of a person who I think deserves it, someone who shares my values and will work to create the kind of world I want to live in. In recent years, it seems we’ve lost sight of that in favour of an analytical view of the process, as if we’re not citizens who will live with the consequences of our crosses, but political science students viewing them from afar._

_As the election draws ever closer, there’ll be endless talk of polls, graphs on the front pages almost every day, pundits who reckon this or that outcome based on this or that whisper from inside the campaign. But polls and trends are the concern only of those within the political system—journalists like myself included—they mean Jack shit outside in the real world, where people live with the repercussions of policies and regulations rather than debating them as an abstract, ideological thing._

_When we vote, we need to remember the power of it. Plenty will be tempted to stay home on polling day, but disaffection with the process of government must not prevail. Apathy is not self-preservation. The acceptance of the status quo out of fear that alternatives could be worse is a blight on our collective souls and a great impediment to our ability to imagine and build a better present for ourselves, let alone a future._

_Arthur Pendragon is not a magic bullet. He will not instantly cure our woes and cannot rectify all the ills committed under Morgause’s reign. What he may be is the ceremonial stone that we’ll lay as we start to build something more worthy of us, and that’s what makes him worthy of putting your cross against._

_Gwaine Green is a columnist for The Camelot Chronicle._

The Rising Sun offered up its usual grim mix of patrons slumped against the tables and music that boarded dirges from the wrong side. Merlin pushed the door open anyway. He ordered them drinks from the bar and dragged Arthur over to a table in the window, where they both collapsed into the chairs with a sigh, grateful to finally be off their feet.

The glass could do with a clean, but even through the tiny, fogged panes, Camelot looked beautiful. The pub sat halfway up a hill, gifting them a view over the once grand marketplace in one direction and the turrets of the castle where the government sat in the other. Merlin rubbed some of the grime off the pane with his sleeve, peering out at it. They’d been to every corner of the realm in the last week, and as they drove back and the city swam out of the darkness, it brought with it a wave of both nostalgia and possibility.

“It’s quite a view, right?” 

Arthur sniffed derision. “What’s to look at these days? The makeshift houses? The piles of rotting waste?”

“Camelot is still Camelot. It can be everything it’s supposed to be again.”

Meeting his eye with a look that was part scorn and part intrigue, Arthur lifted his drink. “Here’s to her, anyway.”

They clinked glasses and both took a drink. It occurred to Merlin as he swallowed that this was the first time they’d done this, drunk together, alone, as friends.

If that’s what they were.

Even now, he wasn’t entirely sure where he stood with Arthur. Merlin was useful to him, sure. He could arrange engagement rings and ensure column inches, plot a strategy to hopeful election victory for him, but he couldn’t imagine going over to Arthur’s in the evening, taking his shoes off and making himself at home. He’d often heard Gaius talk about his days with Uther; the late nights of strategizing and plotting, of negotiations with enemies who’d go on to become friends, of war rooms and crisis talks when they stood staring into the mouth of a disaster. Were they friends? When it came to it, was anyone in this game?

“You always speak very fondly of Camelot,” Arthur said, setting his drink down and regarding Merlin over the top of his steepled fingers. “It’s strange to hear it from someone who wasn’t born here.”

“Just because I wasn’t born here, it doesn’t mean it hasn’t been with me my entire life.”

“No? How so?”

Merlin leant back in his chair. He wasn’t sure how to explain it without sounding hopelessly parochial and quaint. “Where I grew up,” he said, “when things were rough—when the money ran out and there were no jobs to make more with and not enough food to go around—people would gather and tell each other stories about Camelot. Whispers they’d heard from travelling salesmen and things their families had sent back in letters. I can’t tell you how many nights our house was jam packed, everyone crowding around the fire as my mother made as much cocoa as she could and regaled everyone with tales of the big city and how there, people never went hungry and the citizens were looked after from birth to death.”

“How on earth did that help? If you’re starving, why would you care people in Camelot had food?”

“Because that’s how hope works, Arthur. You can’t believe in what you can’t envisage, and if you don’t believe in it, you can’t create it. It’s in all our pamphlets.”

Arthur hummed as if considering it, even though it was probably without his imagination to truly entertain it. Merlin had noticed that was something Arthur struggled with. Having grown up with so much, he found it hard to envisage what poverty really felt like.

Gwen had helped to open his eyes—Merlin knew they’d argued about it often, the way Arthur was unintentionally dismissive of how difficult things could be when you had close to nothing—and though he’d grown to be more considerate in his response, his knee-jerk first thoughts were always based in almost unfathomable privilege.

Merlin scooped up a beermat with a knight on the front and span it underneath his fingers. “Gaius used to write to us, tell us all about the university and the programmes he was setting up, the way people respected him and all the gifts Uther would give him. They were like—” Merlin struggled for the words, picturing his mother’s face when a new letter in Gaius’s handwriting dropped through the letterbox, how she’d light up and always save them for later, when they could sit by the fire and savour every word. It never crossed her mind that it would be bad news. “—it was a treat,” Merlin said. “An opportunity to put down our own problems for a moment or two and live another life. Live Gaius’s life of books and learning and fancy bowties.” 

Arthur chuckled though his nose. “I forgot you and Gaius are practically family.”

Merlin smiled. “No practically about it. He and my mother are all I’ve got.” He thought briefly of Morgana, before pushing it away again, locking her in the box in his chest where he’d tried to keep her contained. “And Gwaine. I suppose I’m stuck with him now.” 

Arthur shifted on his seat and Merlin wondered if he’d offended him, if the campaign and everything that came with it was supposed to be as dear to him now. And it was—magical rights and the fight for it was a huge part of his life—but it wasn’t the same kind of love. He didn’t feel like he could count on any of it yet.

“Has it been all you hoped it would be?” Arthur said. “Camelot?”

Merlin wasn’t sure there was an answer to that question. He’d had a rosy, somewhat naive, idea of what Camelot would be like when he set off for it. Disillusionment had reared its head more than once as he dodged various charges for use of magic and skulked around, trying to find a way to be himself but also not end up in jail. But they’d managed to find time a couple of days ago to call in at Ealdor, and as he’d tumbled out of the car and into his mother’s arms, as she’d hugged him so hard he couldn’t quite breathe all the way in and told him over and over how proud she was of him, none of that had mattered. He’d sat in the kitchen with her, gabbling about their plans for the future, and it had all felt tangible, that he might arrive at the Camelot he’d departed for after all.

“It’s a home,” Merlin said. “I guess that’s what I hoped for.”

Arthur nodded and took a swig of his drink, pulling the cuffs of his jumper down over his hands. In an attempt to fly under the radar, he’d dressed more casually this evening and they’d hopped out of the car a little way from the door. Merlin wasn’t sure if it really worked as a disguise or if the residents of the Rising Sun knew exactly who Arthur was and just didn’t care. “Polls open in what, eight hours?” he said.

“Yep. Nothing more we can do now.”

“I’m sure we can find someone to hand flyers to on our way home.”

“Maybe we could shove them in people’s kebabs,” Merlin said.

Arthur made a face. “I’m afraid I draw the line at going anywhere near a kebab shop.”

“Don’t be a snob,” Merlin said. “After all, it’s traditional.”

“Strangely my father never mentioned the ritual purchasing of shaved meat products before an election.”

“Not for that,” Merlin said. “This is sort of your stag do, isn’t it? I’m going to get us a bunch of shots in a minute—as many as I can carry—and then we stagger to the kebab shop and you get all emotional over some soggy chips and tell me how I’m the best friend a man could ask for.”

Arthur regarded Merlin as if he had no idea if those truly were Merlin’s intentions for the rest of their evening.

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Or we can have another drink and be in bed before midnight.”

“It’s funny,” Arthur said, with a look of some relief. “I dreamt about you. I dreamt about you in such vivid detail.”

“We’re spending a lot of time together, it’s only natural there’s some…bleed into the subconscious.”

“I meant before. Before you showed up at my office. I dreamt—” Arthur stared down into his drink. “You’ll think I’ve lost my mind, that the stress has gotten to me or something.”

Merlin leant in and fixed him with a questioning gaze, his heart pounding. “Try me.”

Arthur sighed, leant closer across the table and lowered his voice. “I dreamt the whole thing,” he said, voice barely more than a whisper, his eyes flickering between Merlin’s to spot any hint of scorn or censure there. “You at the coffee machine, the conversation in my office, the argument about Morgana—I saw it all play out in perfect detail. Even this—” He gestured at the table and their drinks. “—feels vaguely familiar, like I’ve been here before. It’s hard to tell if that was a dream or this is.” His brow furrowed. “I don’t know if that even makes sense.”

“It makes perfect sense.”

“Nothing feels real,” Arthur said. “And how can it be, really? How can I be a day away from an election that could change my entire life? That could change the course of Camelot’s destiny?”

Merlin didn’t know what to say. He lifted his glass and watched the amber liquid roll from one side of it to the other. If Arthur had dreamt it all—foreseen it somehow—

“What happened?” Merlin said. “In the dream? What happened in the end?”

Arthur lifted his glass and took a large swig. “We won,” he said. “That’s why it took me so long to say yes.”

*

Merlin drained his fourth coffee of the morning. The office had disappeared under a sea of campaign volunteers and note boards on which sat printed out maps of Camelot covered in arrows and numbers. He’d written most of them himself, but it took him a moment to remember what they meant or why he thought a particular tally was important.

One thing he’d learned was that a polling day hour was at once over in the blink of an eye and so long, things changed dramatically several times during the course of one. He’d done this before, been on the ground for candidates, been sent to various districts to knock on doors and steward crucial voters to the polls, helping them with everything from feeding their cat to emancipate them from a task that was proving a barrier to talking them through how exactly to vote. The difference was, on those campaigns, no one really expected the United Albionists candidate to win. There’d been no frenzy, no thoughts about how individual actions could affect things, no urgency to drive a victory. They’d all known on some level that they might as well not be bothering, that Morgause was guaranteed to win whatever they did.

Across the room, Leon was fruitlessly beckoning for quiet so he could hear whatever someone on the other end of the phone line was saying.

“Everyone shhhh,” Merlin bellowed, quieting the debate from a dull roar to a level of chatter that would moderately annoy a librarian.

Leon motioned for a pen. “You’re sure?” he said, nodding in reply. He hung up and regarded the room. “First exit poll is in,” he said, and on the sheet of paper pinned up behind his desk, he coloured in the North of Camelot and scrawled: 63% Arthur.

A whoop ran around the room. The North of the city was where the wealthy lived and pulling ahead there was a good sign.

Merlin breathed a quiet sigh of relief, but there wasn’t long to bask in it. A group of volunteers finished their break and gravitated to him for their next location. He skimmed the map, pitching street against street, trying to make a call about where their efforts would do most good. There’d been rain forecast later, so his strategy had been to get as many people to the polls early on as possible. They’d hit breakfast queues and stood on street corners while people commuted, had hurled out prepared lines about how grateful they’d all be to have got voting out of the way in the morning when they got in from work later.

Merlin checked the clock on the wall. “Lunchtime rush,” he said, and drew a circle around a road with several popular cafes and street carts selling cheap sandwiches and pastries. “Here, here, here—same as this morning. Future you will thank you for voting now. Be back by two thirty when things have died off.”

The volunteers bundled out of the door, shoving each other on the arm, their campaign t-shirts attracting a few looks as they poured out onto the street. A couple of people high fived them as they crossed paths.

Merlin turned to Leon. “Those umbrellas you mentioned?” he said. “Make sure they’re ready for when they come back—if I’m not here, send them to Park West and Maypole Corner, get them to help people walk to the polling stations. It’s bridge afternoon at the senior citizen centre and the free nursery will be doing changeover—scoop up as many as possible this afternoon before we hit the post-work rush.”

Leon nodded, making a note in the book that had been clamped to this chest all morning. If he lost that notebook, they’d be screwed.

Merlin stuck his head into his cupboard office. “How’re the speeches coming along?”

Gwaine looked up from his typewriter. His hair had mostly fallen out of his ponytail and he had a pencil tucked behind both ears, purple smudged underneath his eyes. The schedule of the last week had been gruelling for all of them, but none so much as Gwaine. While everyone else had caught forty winks in the cars between destinations, Gwaine had sat hunched over stacks of paper writing remarks for Arthur to make at each stop, collating snippets of local knowledge he could throw out to curry favour, collecting clippings from the local rags so he’d appear up to date on topical issues the area was facing. He’d provided Merlin with everything Arthur needed to have his finger on the pulse of who was playing who in what sport, what businesses were booming or closing, what schools were running out of textbooks and where parents couldn’t afford lunches for their kids.

Arthur had exited the car at each stop brimming with the knowledge required for the next hour or two and had somehow managed to keep all of it straight, apart from a mild blunder in Denaria where he’d shouted, “Go Ravens!” at a group of rugby fans who clearly supported their rivals, the Cavaliers.

“Just finished the victory one,” Gwaine said. “Take a squizz.” He launched a couple of sheets of paper at Merlin’s chest and went back to hammering at his typewriter, swearing, ripping the sheet out, and loading a fresh one. “You sure he can’t just say, ‘Fuck the lot of you’ if he loses?”

“I’ll float it with him,” Merlin said, and sank down in a chair to read.

It wasn’t bad, full of acknowledgement of the quest they were all about to embark upon as citizens, that the road ahead would be tough to traverse but with a common purpose to unite them, Camelot would endure and emerge all the better for it.

Merlin crossed out a couple of adjectives—Gwaine always got carried away with them and Arthur hated anything that sounded too flowery—and handed it back. “Nailed it,” he said.

Gwaine scratched his head. “Don’t know about that,” he said. “I might rework the opening. Something about it’s not sitting right. It’s too—I don’t know. Friendly. He needs authority. Gravitas.”

“You don’t think standing on a podium on a stage in front of a wall of pictures of his own face will go some way to addressing that?”

Gwaine hummed, frowning at the line he’d just typed. “What d’you think of this? ‘It is with a heavy heart that I accept the election result in favour of my opponent, High Priestess Morgause. I hope that the issues raised during the campaign battle have helped to shed light on some of the issues people across this great land care about and that these conversations will help shape the next term of her reign.’”

“You’ve got two _issues_.”

“Arse,” Gwaine said, and scribbled one out, paper still curled over the roll of the typewriter. “Apart from that?”

“Yeah, it’s fine.”

“Fine?”

Merlin shrugged. “To be honest, if he loses, I don’t think he’ll care what he says. And neither will anyone else.”

*

Arthur clapped his hands together, surveying the carnage that used to pass for reception. “An hour until the polls close,” he said. “How are we doing?”

Gwen had been doing an admirable job all day, keeping him away from the control centre of Leon’s desk, but now there were no more photo opportunities or last minute talks to give, there was little choice but to let him in.

Merlin slapped his hand away as Arthur tried to turn a map over. “Don’t upset the system,” he said. Arthur backed away with his hands raised. “And we’re doing fine. Exit polls show we’re on track to win Camelot Central, West, and North. Camelot South has seen a very low turnout—could be people are holding out for after work or our poller there is just slow to report. Taking a nap or something.” Merlin pointed at the map, where the various sections were coloured red and green to represent Arthur and Morgause. “As we’d expect, the areas more towards Cenred’s kingdom are showing more strongly for Morgause, but we think we’re going to take East Lake near Ealdor, which could prove significant. Gwen’s work there really paid off, I think. Even where Morgause is still ahead, we’ve made significant gains and there are reports of intimidation from Cenred’s cronies, so the actual count could be different to the polling numbers.”

Arthur stared at the map, nodding slightly, taking in the columns of numbers where the swing between percentages had been tallied.

“What’s the bigger picture?” Gwen said, looping her arm through Arthur’s.

“Statistically,” Merlin said, tossing his pen into the air, “we’re in a good place. But until the actual count starts we won’t know how our polling compares to reality.” 

“It’s going to be a long night,” Gwen said.

“Go for a nap in one of Arthur’s fancy chairs,” Merlin said. “I’ll wake you when it’s time to go to the town hall.”

Gwen laughed at the suggestion. “I doubt I’d be able to sleep right now if you hit me over the head with Leon’s desk.” Her gaze flickered to the window, beyond which a small crowd of volunteers and supporters were chatting over paper cups of tea and Lancelot had just arrived with a bag of sandwiches. “Maybe I’ll go and say hello to a few people.”

*

The car ride to the town hall had been filled with awkward jokes intended to break the tension, which did nothing of the sort. Merlin sat, drumming an anxious rhythm on his knee until Gaius begged him to stop, and Arthur and Gwen sat opposite, making small talk about the wedding preparations in a show of nonchalance.

The place was bigger than it looked when Merlin had come here to see Arthur speak, the tables and chairs stacked off to one side to make way for rows of trestle tables with ballot boxes on them, officials wrestling their contents out and meticulously counting the votes. Their fingers danced over the corners of each ballot as they counted the ticks in boxes, before calling the numbers out to someone with a clipboard, who tallied them to make sure they added up.

At one end of the room, the stage had been set for the live broadcast and press conference, with the colours of each campaign taking up precisely half the backdrop each. Whoever won would stand there to make their victory speech and take questions from reporters, their words blasted all around the realm and heard in pubs and shops as well as people’s homes.

The hairs on Merlin’s arms prickled at the thought. He remembered the broadcasts from his childhood. All the neighbours would come over and his mother would make enough snacks to feed a small army, and when the longed-for change didn’t come, she’d simply say, “Next time,” and offer condolences to everyone and another round of drinks.

Arthur’s forced smile was starting to look a little worn. “How much longer will this take?” he said, through gritted teeth, but before Merlin could answer, the doors at the back of the hall opened.

Morgause’s security flooded the rear of the hall, eyes alert for any danger the assembled volunteer counters might pose. They moved between the neat rows of tables to mount the stage, checking the backdrop and the wings for who knows what. Their gazes skipped over where Merlin and Arthur were currently standing without pausing before beckoning to their fellows who’d remained by the door.

“I don’t know about you,” Gwaine said, sidling over and sipping from a recently acquired coffee, “but I feel much safer now they’re here.”

At his side, Leon murmured agreement into a paper cup.

“Do you think they actually have names?” Gwaine said, peering at the identically-uniformed guards standing in identical poses, hands clasped behind their backs, jaws set, eyes firmly ahead.

“They must do,” Leon said, before considering it for a moment and adding, “although I’ll confess I can’t guess what any of them might be. None of them looks like, say, a Kevin or a Simon.”

Gwaine chuckled into his coffee before draping an arm around Merlin’s shoulder. “How you holding up?”

“I’m fine,” Merlin said. “It’s Arthur who’s pacing like a horse about to give birth.”

“I meant—” Gwaine’s gaze dropped off the edge of the stage and he looked towards the doors.

Morgana stood against the night, her hair coiled over one shoulder of a dark grey dress, jewels in her ears sparkling like a mini nebula.

Merlin had been preparing for this, mentally rehearsing the moment in the hope he could impose a feeling of genuine indifference on himself. Now it was here, every cell in his body wanted to flee. His feet wanted to run all the way back to Ealdor and his brain cursed him for ever learning to make her drink. Locking her in a box in his chest only worked, it seemed, when he couldn’t actually see her. He swallowed. “Fine.”

Gwaine looked unconvinced, but he didn’t push it, and a moment later distraction came in the form of Morgause, sweeping in, her security scurrying around her like worker bees around a queen. She wore a long, wine-coloured coat that fell all the way to the floor and her hair was piled high, accentuating her expression of disdain for the entire process. She glided up the steps to the stage to take her place in front of the backdrop.

Her presence made Merlin’s stomach coil up in an attempt to leave his body through his spine, and as Morgana joined her, the power radiating off them both was almost too much to endure. Gaius appeared at Merlin’s shoulder, keeping a watchful eye on both of them, even though in any kind of fight, his magic would be little match for either of them.

Morgana regarded Merlin askance, corner of her mouth hitching up as she caught him looking at her.

Merlin curled his fingers around the stone in his pocket. Its coolness was reassuring and it warmed to his touch, as if it was actually responding to him. It wasn’t much—a protective crystal he’d spelled after his last encounter with Morgana—but it would be enough to put himself between her and someone he cared about without giving himself a three-day headache, if it came to it.

On the floor, there was a flurry of activity as one of the trestle tables declared a miscount. Arthur sighed as they started again. “I need some fresh air,” he said, and stomped off towards the side door, Gwaine and Leon in his wake.

Morgana was looking at him again, and when Merlin frowned at her, she beckoned to him. Merlin looked around before jerking his head towards the wings. At least there, they’d be out of the way of the couple of photographers who’d been allowed in to take candid shots of the candidates waiting for the vote count.

She met him there, eyes sparkling like the jewels in her ears. She looked less tired than she had the night at the Pendragon house, a new radiance about her, and he hated the pang it inspired.

“How’s your mini Duke?” he said.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said. “He won’t do half the things with me that you will. There could still be a use for you.”

Morgana drummed a finger on the front of Merlin’s shirt. He wondered if he imagined it was the same as the one he’d tapped on his own knee in the car, if it was some kind of elemental rhythm that only they could feel, something particular to the two of them.

She looked up at him, and the crackle was still there, only now he knew the real risk that came attached to it. “Looks like things will take a while longer,” she said. “We could…go somewhere. For old time’s sake.”

In spite of everything, Merlin wanted her. He wanted his hands on a door either side of her head and her legs around his waist. He wanted her breathy words all over his ear and the careening thoughts about if his trembling knees would continue to hold him up. He wanted the feeling of there being nothing in the world as important as the feel of her skin against his. Significant parts of him didn’t seem to care that not too long ago, she’d tried to crush him with a ceiling.

He thumbed the stone in his pocket, feeling for the slight flaw in its smooth surface, the one that ran along a vein of black that dissected the iridescent white. It didn’t do anything about the wanting which, if he was honest, he had hoped was a spell, the effects of which he might somehow be able to rid himself of with a few mumbled words from one of Gaius’s books, but it did make it easier to breathe.

“You barely campaigned. Do you really think you’ll win?” Merlin said.

Morgana’s face was almost pitying. “Do you really think it matters to us whether we do or not?”

Merlin swallowed.

“All these little scraps of paper,” Morgana mused, as if she was talking to herself, “people put a lot of faith in them, don’t you think?”

“What are you saying?” Merlin said. “That even if Arthur wins, Morgause will refuse to concede?”

“I’m saying—” Morgana’s fingers trailed down his chest, toying with the buttons on his shirt. “—that an election is the easy way, but far from the only one.”

“You won’t—you wouldn’t.”

“Have you forgotten who you’re dealing with?”

“No,” Merlin said, and grabbed her fingers as they skirted his waistband, “but you appear to have.”

He fixed her with a stare. All week he’d been half expecting to wake up to a wall full of headlines about how Arthur Pendragon’s campaign manager was a dangerous sorcerer, a hatchet job full of quotes from old acquaintances from Ealdor who always suspected something and coerced statements from Druids still held at Morgause’s behest about conversations he’d had with them before they were detained. He wasn’t used to channelling his magic in such a way that made it obvious how much power he had to call upon, but still it sparked painfully where they touched.

Morgana snatched her hand back, and with another crooked smile that contained no actual warm feeling, she span on her heel and went back to join Morgause.

*

The next three hours or so passed in a jittery haze as the remaining votes were counted, recounted, and tallied.

Just before 3am, the chief election officer—a squat woman with an expression befitting someone who’d been up for 24 hours—took to the stage and tapped the microphone, clipboard with the result on tucked close to her chest.

She read through the formalities, the names of the adjudicators and the declaration that everything had been carried out under the correct regulations and verified by appropriate persons, before beckoning the candidates closer. She called the results by district, announcing the total number of votes for each candidate before clarifying the percentage.

The first districts were called more or less in line with the polling Merlin’s team had conducted, with the ones they’d thought would go to Morgause falling as expected. It was a cumulative thing though and Merlin tried to keep up with each call, tallying the percentage of votes for Arthur versus the ones for Morgause. He knew most people in the room were doing the same and it was easy to tell who was for them and against when he looked out at the room and saw the smiles as each new result was announced.

There was no denying the palpable sense of possibility that intensified every time a result went Arthur’s way. Gwaine, Leon, and Gaius were all on their toes, drawn up by tension, and as the reporters clicked photos of them, he could feel a subtle shift in Morgana and Morgause, an ebbing of confidence, a curling of anxiety.

“Camelot East,” the chief election officer said, reading from the clipboard through glasses pinched onto the end of her nose, “forty-thousand nine-hundred and fifteen votes for High Priestess Morgause, fifty-one thousand, eight hundred and two votes for Arthur Pendragon. That is—”

The rest was drowned out as a cheer erupted around him.

Merlin pressed his palms together and rested his fingers against his lips.

One more district was all they needed and Camelot South was up next. It was one of the biggest but one of the most difficult to predict, home to an eclectic mix of bohemian types and old money as well as plenty of magical defence workers on the outskirts closest to the factories where they worked. Merlin’s attempts to get a grasp of how things would swing there had faltered: every poll showed something different; there was no demographic consistency; they found as many supporters as they did people disillusioned with the whole system, and not where they expected either.

He chanced a glance across the stage. Morgause’s expression remained unmoved and she stood still as a statue, her hands folded in front of her, security and Morgana at her flank. The contrast between the two parties couldn’t be more stark. Arthur stood holding hands with Gwen and exchanging inside jokes while Gwaine gripped Leon’s arm, both of them wearing matching campaign t-shirts that they’d been sporting for the best part of a week. Gaius straightened his bowtie and cleared his throat. “Here we go,” he said.

“Camelot South,” the chief election officer said. “Votes for High Priestess Morgause number thirteen thousand, four hundred and forty-nine.”

Gaius gasped.

“What?” Gwaine hissed. “Is that bad?”

Merlin pressed his fingers harder to his mouth.

Unless there’d been a spectacularly low turnout, thirteen and a half thousand was nowhere near enough to win. His heart thundered in his chest and the next seconds passed like a lifetime. Ahead of him, Gwen squeezed Arthur’s hand so hard her knuckles looked about to pop and Gwaine and Leon clustered at Merlin’s shoulder, so close he could feel both of them holding their breath.

“And for Arthur Pendragon, the total votes number eighty-three thousand—”

The chief election officer’s words disappeared under an eruption of cheering.

Merlin was spun around and found his face in Gwaine’s neck and Leon’s armpit simultaneously, the two of them bouncing up and down and thumping him on the back before releasing him. He staggered into Arthur, who had one hand clasped over his mouth in disbelief. His eyes shone and at his side, Gwen was clinging to his arm as if she might be actually holding him up.

“Congratulations,” Merlin said.

“I can’t believe it,” Gwen said, breaking off into a laugh. “I can’t believe we actually did it?”

“Come here,” Arthur said, and dragged Merlin to him in an awkward one-armed hug.

Merlin accepted a pat on the back, scanning the room behind Arthur where the counters had now turned towards the stage and were applauding, and the photographers were clicking away on the images that would make up tomorrow’s front pages.

Arthur took a deep breath and strode towards the microphone, doing up the buttons on his jacket and straightening his tie. The chief election officer shook his hand and indicated he should speak. “Thank you,” Arthur said. “Before I say anything else, I want to thank the election officials both here and across the realm for their incredible efforts today. You are truly public servants and we all—”

On the other side of the stage, Morgause still stood, impassive, her face giving away nothing of what she was feeling.

Next to her, Morgana slid her attention to Merlin, and grinned so wide and cool his veins felt instantly flooded with ice.

Merlin clung to the stone in his pocket, tucking it into his palm and locking his fingers around it. He focused on Arthur speaking, letting words of hope and promise wash over him, and when he looked back, Morgana and Morgause were gone.

Gaius shuffled closer and knocked his elbow. He was beaming and leant in close, conspiratorial, like they had so many times at the backs of town halls the realm over and discussed whether the speaker they’d come to see had half a chance. “You won, Merlin,” Gaius whispered, “you won.”

Merlin tried to echo what Gaius was feeling back to him, but it felt more like he’d lost everything.

*

The wedding was exactly as it had been planned to be: charmingly home-made looking with dozens of quaint touches, the details of which would fill out fourteen pages of a glossy magazine spread. Each illustrious and well-chosen guest would leave with a box of personalised truffles and memories of the smell of the lavender and lilacs which decorated the tables, speeches about duty and honour and their own part in what was to come ringing in their ears. Camelot’s finest cheese purveyors and cake makers and florists were happy to have an occasion to showcase their wares and the entire day had been drenched in hazy, early summer sunshine that seemed to promise better things to come for the entire realm.

Gwen and Arthur both looked radiant, flushed with victory and possibility as they exchanged giddy vows and danced to Wild and Splendid Love, the song Arthur had name-checked on Elyan’s radio show. All in all, it had been a very lovely day.

Merlin sat at the table, raking flower petal confetti into a pile between his empty wine glass and cake plate. Morgana hadn’t shown up, her absence at the top table hastily covered by a quick rearrangement of the chairs, as if she’d never been intended to be there. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, that after sweeping off the stage with Morgause, she’d somehow go back to being the Morgana from before, that they’d slow dance and then sneak off to be alone in the grounds. Still, it tugged at him, not knowing where she was or what she and Morgause were plotting when there was a month-long transition ahead of them.

He’d found the picture of him and Morgana dancing in his pocket that morning. He pulled it out, unfurled it, and looked at it for a long moment before tucking it under the cake plate. It belonged here, to this time, to this era of his life; he didn’t need a picture to remember every second if it, anyway.

“Not dancing, Merlin?” Gwaine said, dropping into a seat next to him and grabbing a handful of nuts from a bowl in the centre that he’d procured from the buffet.

Merlin shook his head. It wasn’t that he wasn’t happy for Gwen and Arthur, just that the jollity and joviality of the occasion were jarring with his own mood.

“I might take off,” Merlin said. “Go to the office and start sorting the mess out, so there’s less to do when they get back off honeymoon.”

“You want some company?”

“Nah,” Merlin said, using Gwaine’s shoulder as leverage to haul himself to his feet. “Stay here and enjoy the cheesy disco.”

*

Arthur’s office had been left in a state of carnage. Flyers that had been tossed into the air in celebration were now wedged in vents and scattered on the floor, cups with taut skins across the remains of the coffee huddled around the feet of the chairs, and Leon’s desk was covered in damp-smelling umbrellas that had been returned by the volunteers and were now welded to his notes.

Merlin looked around the place. They’d move to the castle soon enough, leaving all of this behind. Someone would have to take down and archive the press clippings in his and Gwaine’s cupboard and maybe Leon would finally get a computer that didn’t take twenty minutes to start.

Merlin closed the door behind himself and peered through the window to check the street was empty. The Druid flag bearing Eihwaz was still there, fluttering slightly in the breeze. Merlin smiled at it. It felt like an old friend; he was glad the supporters had left it when they moved on to whatever they were supporting next.

He rolled the word ‘change’ around in his head.

They’d done that, hadn’t they? Whatever happened next, things _would_ change. He couldn’t say quite how or in what order, or even that all of it would be good, but things would be different.

With a wave of his hands, he spelled the mess into bin bags and refreshed the air with a pleasant mountain breeze. He wondered if anyone had ever done magic in here; it thrilled him to think he might be the first, but that one day it would be as normal to do this as it was now to fill a cup with coffee from the machine in the corner.

The only thing that remained from election day was the flipchart on the easel, still bearing the latest calculations as the exit polls called in their results hour on hour and a roughly drawn map of the realm with various bits coloured green and red. He ran a hand over it, thinking of keeping it for posterity, that maybe he’d get it framed and send it to Gaius.

Then he turned the sheet over.

For a second, all he could do was stare at the blank expense of fresh paper. It was impossible not to feel daunted by what it represented, by all the ideas that needed now to be cajoled into an actionable plan and by the responsibility he had for implementing it and making good on all the promises.

Without thinking too much about why, Merlin grabbed a pen and drew a circle right in the middle of the sheet. At the top of it, he wrote Arthur’s name, then added Gwen to his left and himself on his right. Around the rest of the circle, he added Gwaine, Leon, Gaius, Lancelot, Elyan, Percy. For the first time, he could see not the details, but the shape of how they might achieve what he wanted to.

These were the people who’d looked at a battle they didn’t know they could win, and decided to fight it anyway.

“It’s a start,” Merlin said. “We’re a start.”


End file.
